


the lives we've lived

by Remy (iamremy)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF Stiles, Banter, Deputy Derek Hale, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hale Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Derek, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/Remy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Derek is there for Stiles, and one time Stiles returns the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxDodo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxDodo/gifts).



> Hi, all. This is something I've been working on since the dawn of time (by that I mean last month), as a birthday present for [Aelya](http://afallengrace.tumblr.com). I'm going to publish a chapter every day, with the final one being on her birthday. Originally I was gonna put it all up at once... before it became a behemoth of a fic.
> 
> So here's chapter one. Aelya bab I hope you like it :*
> 
> **DEDICATION:** To Aelya, who’s one of my oldest and best friends. She’s there for me when I’m down, and she’s there for me when I’m sky high. She laughs and cries with me, she talks to me, and she listens to me. She is everything I could ask for in a friend, and in a little sister. I love you, kiddo  <3  
> (You are still The Children, though.)

The problem with Beacon Hills is (other than the weekly supernatural shitstorms) that it's a small town, and you’re more likely than not to run into someone you know while out grocery shopping or whatever. Derek grumbles a little to himself as he looks down at the shopping list in his hand. He doesn’t _like_ this. Shopping is for lesser mortals.

He parks his Camaro and makes his way inside the store, stopping at the entrance to stare in awe and a little bit of intimidation at the rows and rows of products ahead of him. He can’t remember the last time he’s been grocery shopping – it’s usually Stiles who opens his fridge, rolls his eyes at him and mocks his lack of responsibility, and then goes out on grocery runs. He’s become quite used to the kid going in and out of his apartment at random times of the day (sometimes night), either alone or with Scott and Liam, making noise and talking at him and generally filling the loft with his presence.

But Stiles hasn’t been in to see him for a couple of days now. He did call and explain that he’s got a ton of schoolwork, plus lacrosse practice, and he apologized, but Derek knows he has his own life and so he told Stiles to shut up and not be an idiot. He could almost hear the smile on Stiles’s face over the phone when he said it.

Derek woke up that morning feeling extra grumpy – he put it down to the silence caused by Stiles’s absence – and wanting nothing more than a nice breakfast and some senseless daytime TV. He planned his breakfast all the way through his morning shower – he’d fry himself some eggs, sunny side up, and have them with toast; he’d make himself some coffee, milk and sugar just the way he liked it; and he’d eat it in front of the TV. Hopefully it would distract him from the way he misses Stiles when he’s not around, a visceral, _heavy_ feeling inside his gut.

The only problem arose when he opened the fridge to find nothing but some moldy cheese and a half-eaten, week-old slice of pizza.

So here he is. Grocery shopping. He thinks he’d rather face the Alphas again than put himself through this, but it’s not like he has a choice or anything. Stiles would kill him if he starved himself to death. God knows he’s threatened it enough times, and while logically Derek knows that Stiles can’t hurt him, he also knows he can’t bear it if he made Stiles sad.

He squints down at the list in his hand. Stiles had emailed it to him a couple days prior, already anticipating how busy he’d be and that Derek would need food. Derek had to suppress the urge to go kiss the living daylights out of Stiles for that one. It probably wouldn’t have gone over well with his dad.

The first thing on the list is _vegetables_. Not very specific, thinks Derek irritably. How exactly is he supposed to know what vegetables to buy?

Oh well. He can try, and when he fails to do his own grocery and dies of starvation, Stiles will know it’s all because of his very vague list. He will be upset, true, but this time it won’t be Derek’s fault.

Feeling vindicated, Derek heads off in the direction of the shopping carts.

The cart he chooses has to be possessed. There’s no other explanation for why it simply insists on veering off in random directions. Derek sets it straight more than once, growls at it at least thrice (to no avail, of course – the damn thing isn’t sentient, no matter what Derek thinks), and threatens it bodily harm numerous times. Of course, the cart doesn’t care, and continues trying to crash into the nearest shelf.

Derek finally manages to manhandle it to the vegetables section, and then looks down at his list again. He sees what he’d missed the first time around; under _vegetables_ , Stiles has written down neatly, in a bulleted list:

  * _Carrots_

  * _Cabbage_

  * _Spinach_

  * _Potatoes_




Ah. Okay. This much Derek can manage.

He curses as the cart almost headbutts an old lady, and struggles for a second before aggressively moving towards the carrots. He stares for a second, wonders how he’s supposed to tell what carrots to buy and what not, decides _fuck it_ and grabs a handful. He does the same for the cabbage, spinach and potatoes.

He’s feeling quite pleased with himself when he gets to the last item on the list an hour and a half later – _cereal_ – and heads off into the proper aisle. He spends a second looking around at the expansive shelves and the infinite choices, and then grabs a box of Cheerios. He gives the shopping cart a smug look and turns around to leave, almost running straight into Jordan Parrish.

The deputy seems to be off-duty, seeing as how he’s casually dressed in jeans and a plain black V-neck. Derek steers the cart to the side – it’s trying to molest Parrish, it would seem – and offers an embarrassed grin. “Sorry,” he says, remembering his manners. “The cart is fucking crazy.”

Parrish grins at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay, Derek,” he says. He inclines his head towards Derek’s full cart. “How come you’re doing the shopping this time? It’s usually Stiles who does it for you, am I right?”

Derek scowls. “You know about that?”

“Yeah,” nods Parrish. “He only complains about your lack of self-preservation instincts every three seconds or so.”

Derek is pretty sure the tips of his ears are glowing red, and that aggravates him some more. “When I find that kid…” he mumbles angrily to himself.

Parrish gives him an odd look. “You don’t know?” he asks.

“Don’t know what?” Derek doesn’t like the look on the deputy’s face. His expression is a peculiar mix of pity and confusion, and his eyes are narrowed as if he’s not sure whether Derek’s bluffing or not.

“Oh,” he says a second later. “You really don’t know.”

“No, I don’t,” Derek assures him, a sinking feeling in his gut. “Wait – Stiles isn’t – he’s not–”

“He’s fine,” Parrish interrupts Derek’s panicked half-inquiry. “But.” He sighs, and looks Derek in the eye. “Sheriff Stilinski got hurt on the job a few hours ago. He’s in surgery. Stiles is at the hospital.”

The lead weight in Derek’s gut drops straight through to his feet. “What?” he says dumbly. “But – he would have called me.”

“His phone’s dead,” Parrish informs Derek. “And besides, I don’t think he’s in any state to call anybody. He’s almost catatonic with shock.” He gives Derek a sympathetic look. “It’s pretty bad, you know. Three gunshot wounds to the abdomen. Stiles hasn’t spoken since I brought him in.”

“When was this?” demands Derek, a fiery determination filling him. Fuck the groceries, fuck everything – he has to go to Stiles _now_ , he needs to make sure the kid is okay.

“A couple of hours ago,” Parrish says. “I’m sorry, I would have called you, but I think your phone’s off too.” Yeah, it is. The realization fills Derek with horror and shame. If he’d had his cell phone on he would have found out earlier, could have been with Stiles sooner. Who knows how long the kid’s been sitting alone, drowning in his own mind?

Derek abandons the perverted shopping cart in the middle of the aisle and strides off purposefully, not even bothering to say goodbye to Parrish. The deputy gapes after him for a second, before catching up and saying, “Hey, I’m headed there too. I’ll take you.”

Derek doesn’t even wait to consider; he practically runs all the way to Parrish’s cruiser.

* * *

 

Stiles is slumped in a chair in the waiting room, head in his hands. Derek can’t see Melissa, and there’s no one else around either. He follows the curve of Stiles’s back, and his heart breaks a little at how hopeless the kid looks.

Stiles doesn’t notice his presence until he’s right in the kid’s personal space, taking a seat next to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He looks up then, and Derek sees how red his eyes are, his skin pale and stretched taut over his face. He’s been crying – there are tear tracks glowing silvery on his cheeks, and the smell of salt is heavy in the air.

“Any news?” Parrish asks Stiles softly, taking the seat on his other side. Stiles shakes his head no, and leans into Derek’s side, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder.

Parrish throws Derek a concerned look over Stiles’s head, clearly worrying about the kid. Derek offers what he hopes is a somewhat reassuring smile, but what he’s sure is more of a grimace. Meanwhile, Stiles curls his fingers into the soft fabric of Derek’s shirt and holds on like it’s his only lifeline.

“Have you called Scott?” Derek asks Parrish some time later. The deputy shakes his head. “You should,” Derek tells him. “Stiles needs his friends right now.”

Parrish nods, and gets to his feet. The clock on the wall reads fifteen minutes to midnight. “I’ll be back,” Parrish says, and goes off in search of a phone.

“Hey,” Derek whispers to Stiles when he’s sure that Parrish is out of earshot. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. My phone was off. Parrish just ran into me at the store and told me.”

Stiles doesn’t reply; instead he shifts a little closer to Derek, not taking his hands off his shirt.

“It’ll be okay,” Derek says. “I promise, Stiles. Your dad will be fine.” He knows this isn’t something he can guarantee, and Stiles knows it too, but Derek will do anything right now to make Stiles look a little less like his world is crashing down around him.

Stiles opens his mouth, but instead of words a sob escapes him. To Derek’s horror, the tears start anew. Stiles’s entire body is trembling with the force of his cries, and he muffles his face in Derek’s shirt as he weeps. Derek has no choice but to hold him as tightly as possible and murmur meaningless reassurances, but he knows Stiles won’t be okay unless his dad is.

He wears himself out in a matter of minutes, already exhausted by the events of the night. Parrish returns at midnight to find Stiles slumped almost in Derek’s lap, eyes closed and breathing heavily. The only indicator that he’s still awake is the occasional sniff.

“I called Scott,” Parrish tells Derek, voice really low. “He should be here any minute.” He sits down on Derek’s other side this time, keeping his previous seat free for whenever Scott arrives.

There is silence for a few moments, and then Derek asks, voice rough, “What happened?”

Parrish looks warily in Stiles’s direction, but when the kid doesn’t move he replies, “We were investigating a reported burglary. Perp’s human,” he adds in response to Derek’s questioning look. “But he knew we were coming, and he ambushed us. I drove the Sheriff here, and they took him into surgery immediately. Mrs. McCall told me to go home and change – there was blood all over my clothes – and after that I drove over to Stiles’s.”

Derek can’t imagine what Stiles’s reaction must have been, but he has a pretty close idea. The smell of salt clings to Parrish too, from where he must have held Stiles as he cried initially. Without really thinking about it, he leans in and kisses Stiles’s temple. Stiles doesn’t move, but his grip on Derek’s shirt tightens.

Scott arrives just then, and much to Derek’s relief he doesn’t demand to know what happened, or make a fuss of any kind. He just makes a beeline straight for them and sits down on Stiles’s other side, placing a calming hand on Stiles’s back. Derek feels Stiles relax a little, and he gives Scott a grateful smile. Scott just grimaces, and begins rubbing small circles into Stiles’s back.

They sit in silence.

* * *

 

Melissa comes to see them at half past one. There is blood on her scrubs, and her face is drawn into lines of worry. She raises a hand to stop the barrage of questions she knows is coming. “He’ll be fine,” she says, and Stiles finally opens his eyes, daring to look hopeful. She offers him a comforting smile. “Surgery went well, kiddo. I’ll be honest, I was pretty damn terrified for a while there, but,” she smiles warmly, “you know how tough your dad is. He’ll be fine.”

For a few seconds Stiles is frozen. Then, slowly, he staggers to his feet. “I want–” he tries, his voice rough and hoarse, “I want to see him.”

“They’re moving him into a private room, I’ll take you up there when he’s ready,” Melissa replies. She doesn’t bother to add that he’ll be asleep; she knows it won’t deter Stiles.

They troop in silently, taking care not to disturb anything. Stiles takes up a chair next to his father’s bedside, and it’s evident from his demeanor that neither hell nor high heaven will move him until his father is all right. Derek settles himself in another chair, next to Stiles’s, and Parrish and Scott sit on the extra cot in the room.

“It’ll take a few hours for the sedatives to wear off,” Melissa says quietly. “If you need anything, let me know.”

When no one moves, Scott nods at her. “Thanks, mom.”

She smiles, and slips back outside.

* * *

 

The Sheriff comes to slowly, at some point after 8 a.m. There is sunlight filtering in through the windows, bathing everything in a soft yellow glow. Scott is fast asleep in the cot, and Parrish has left to get some rest as well. Stiles is still stubbornly awake, and so’s Derek.

Stiles jumps a little when the machines begin beeping a little more insistently, indicating that his father’s awake. He leans in closer, watches his dad’s face eagerly as the Sheriff blinks, and then says, voice scratchy, “Hey, kid.”

Stiles lets out a sob, but he’s smiling. “Never again,” he says. “You hear me, Dad? Do something like that again and I’ll–” He breaks off with a choked cry, not able to finish.

“Hey.” The Sheriff’s tone is a lot softer now. “Come here, kid.” Eyes welling up with more tears, Stiles obeys. The Sheriff waits until he’s closer, and then puts his hand on his son’s face. “I’m okay, kid. I promise. I’m not gonna leave you, I swear.”

It seems like that’s all Stiles has needed to hear in God knows how long – he sobs again and says thickly, “I know, Daddy, I know,” before leaning in and resting his head near the Sheriff’s shoulder, taking care not to accidentally aggravate his injuries. The Sheriff runs a hand through Stiles’s messy hair and kisses his forehead. “It’s okay, kid,” he repeats tenderly, over and over, until it finally gets through to Stiles.

Derek feels a lot like he’s intruding on a private moment between father and son, and so he gets up to go out for a bit and give them some time. He looks back when he’s at the door. Stiles is smiling at something his father said, and the Sheriff is grinning weakly back at him. Derek smiles too, and closes the door behind himself.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just their luck, of course, that there's a crazy omega in town and it just _happens_ to find Stiles on a night that's close to the full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2 :D at this point I think I should mention that I've already got the entire fic written down; it's just a matter of updating. Which I'll be doing everyday, with the final installment being on Aelya's actual birthday.
> 
> This chapter contains: bamf!Stiles, overprotective!Derek, and also nekkid!Derek

Derek rolls his eyes as Stiles throws popcorn at his TV screen for the billionth time. “If you don’t like the movie, just don’t watch it,” he tells him.

Stiles stops in his popcorn-throwing to stare incredulously at Derek. “What do you mean?” he demands. “Derek, the _point_ of watching bad movies is to make fun of them. That’s all they’re good for. We’re watching them _ironically_.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “And how long is it before we’ll be watching them _un_ ironically?”

Stiles just gapes at Derek, as if unable to believe what’s coming out of the werewolf’s mouth. Finally he says, “Do you even know what fun is.”

“Yes, I do, actually,” Derek tells him. “I just don’t think I need to waste two hours of my life on a movie about Transformers Satan.”

“It’s called _Devour_ ,” Stiles informs him huffily, “and the _entire point_ of this movie is to be _so_ bad it’s _hilarious_.”

Derek decides to give up, but he does move the popcorn bowl out of Stiles’s reach, and completely ignores the disappointed look he receives in return. He tries to wrestle Derek for the bowl, but of course he doesn’t succeed and ends up pinned under Derek.

“Get – _off_ – me!”

Derek grins, pokes a finger into Stiles’s side, eliciting a high-pitched yell. “Not until you promise not to waste any more popcorn.”

“Clearly you don’t understand the tradition of popcorn-throwing – _Derek_!”

So it turns out Stiles is ticklish. Derek takes full advantage of his discovery, running his fingers over every surface he knows will make Stiles squirm with uncontrollable giggles. It works; not a minute later Stiles is laughing so hard there are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, trying his best to get out from under Derek.

He’s fully aware that he would never do this if they weren’t alone. But the thing about Stiles is that he’s sort of drilled into Derek’s brain and made a home in his heart, and he refuses to leave. Not that Derek wants him to, anyway. At this point in his life he’s going to do pretty much anything if it means he gets to see Stiles smile or laugh.

Even something as undignified as tickling him.

“ _Fine_ ,” wheezes Stiles. “I won’t throw the fucking popcorn. Let me go!”

Satisfied, Derek grins smugly and lets up. Stiles glares at him, breathless, face flushed. Derek thinks he looks amazing, but then he’s kind of biased. To him, Stiles always looks amazing.

“I hate you,” Stiles grumbles, but negates his words by sitting up and leaning back against Derek.

“Sure you do,” Derek replies, pressing his lips to the side of Stiles’s head.

They watch the rest of the movie in relative peace, interjected only by the occasional comment (from Stiles) and the subsequent “Shut _up_ ” (from Derek). It’s quite late when they’re finished - a glance at the clock tells Derek it’s some time past one. He’s a bit uncertain about Stiles being out driving this late, and says so.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles assures him. “I can take care of myself. Besides, I’ve got that fucking awesome baseball bat in my car. Nothing that the badass bat can’t beat, dude.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Derek says patiently. “About the thing where you call me dude.”

“What about it?” asks Stiles, pulling on his jacket and checking to make sure his car keys are in the pocket.

“To not do it,” Derek replies, refraining from rolling his eyes with great difficulty.

“Whatever… _dude_ ,” Stiles says, grinning cheekily at him. He pulls on his socks and shoes, and then stands. “Okay, I better be going. I’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Stay over,” Derek offers. “I’ll drop you off to school.” He knows Stiles is fully capable of being fine on his own - and he’s witnessed firsthand what a terror Stiles really is when armed with that fucking bat - but he still doesn’t like the idea of Stiles alone at this time of night. The recent talk about an omega being loose in Beacon Hills, plus it being really close to the full moon, has him really anxious about Stiles’s safety.

“Derek, really, it’s a fifteen-minute drive,” Stiles says. “I’ll be fine, big guy.” When Derek still doesn’t look convinced, Stiles rolls his eyes and adds, “Okay, I’ll text you when I get home, okay?”

Derek nods, not appeased but accepting that Stiles isn’t going to back down on this. Stupid, stubborn human. “Fine,” he says grudgingly.

Stiles grins brightly at him, and leans over to kiss his cheek. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” he teases. “I’ll see you tomorrow, eh, Derek? Or, you know, whenever.”

Derek follows Stiles to the door. “Drive safe,” he says gruffly.

“I would _never_ violate something as sacred as traffic laws,” Stiles assures him, complete with a mock-affronted gasp. “You _know_ me, Der-Der, would I ever do something that _horrible_?”

Derek snorts. “Get out,” he says, lightly pushing Stiles out his door. “Text me when you get home. And don’t you dare call me _Der-Der_ again.”

“Goodnight, Der-Der,” Stiles says promptly, and runs before Derek can grab him. Derek watches him wave from the end of the corridor, and smiles to himself before heading back inside.

* * *

Fifteen minutes pass by without a text from Stiles. Derek tells himself not to worry; Stiles is safe, probably just stopped on the way for something. Maybe he went to the all-night convenience store for ice cream. Maybe he stopped by his dad’s office to check on him (he sometimes does that when the Sheriff is on a night shift). There’s a very rational explanation for the delay, Derek’s sure, and he’s probably just overreacting.

He’s lying down on the couch trying to read a little before Stiles’s text (he’s not going to go to bed unless he’s absolutely sure Stiles is home), mobile phone by his side. He checks it every few seconds, as if magically expecting a text to pop up.

Twenty minutes. Nothing. He’s starting to get even more anxious, but he tells himself that whatever it is that Stiles is doing is probably taking some time. He resists the urge to call Stiles, knowing that he’ll just get a fond teasing for his worries.

So he goes back to his book, even though he’s been reading the same paragraph over and over again for the past ten minutes.

Twenty-five minutes is the last straw, though. Derek gets off the couch, and decides that a little mocking is nothing if it means he’ll know whether or not Stiles is safe. So he puts his book aside, picks up his phone, and dials.

It rings, and then, _This is Stiles. Obviously I can’t talk to you right now. Leave a message after the beep._

Derek curses under his breath, and grabs his car keys.

* * *

He drives along the path he knows Stiles takes, looking around in all directions and trying to see if there’s anything wrong. His heart skips a beat every time he passes another car, and doesn’t go back to normal until he’s ascertained that it isn’t the Jeep. It’s especially dumb because he _knows_ he can smell Stiles a mile off, but he’s not gonna sit and deny it’s irrational. He knows it is.

He finally spots the Jeep parked on the side of the road, some eight minutes out from his place. The headlights are on, but there’s no one inside. Heart hammering in his chest, Derek parks behind it and gets out, ready to shift at a moment’s notice.

The scent of fear and adrenalin hits him hard the minute he takes a breath of the fresh air. The only thing remotely reassuring about this entire situation is that at least it means Stiles is nearby. He can’t smell any blood yet, so he’s assuming that Stiles is okay.

What he can smell, though, is another werewolf. Not pack. Not ally.

Omega. And an angry one at that too.

He shifts; feels his claws pop and his teeth lengthen and his bones melt and reform right under his skin even as he feels himself getting lower, growing furry. A growl escapes his throat, and he takes off at a run, completely disregarding that he’s going to be buck-ass naked when he shifts back.

He follows Stiles’s scent, scared by how it’s almost completely covered by the omega’s, which is a mix of hunger and bloodlust. He runs deep into the woods, and it’s not long before he can hear panting (the omega) and heavy breathing and silent cursing (Stiles).

The smell is almost overwhelming now, and he growls again. He does _not_ want this omega’s disturbing, stale odor anywhere near Stiles. He doesn’t want the omega anywhere near Stiles, period. He runs faster, and skids to a stop in what looks like a _really_ small clearing, or a big gap between a couple of trees.

Stiles and the omega - shifted - are literally three feet away from each other, looking each other in the eyes and not moving at all. It’s strange to see Stiles so still, when usually he’s so full of movement. He’s holding his bat away, to seem non-threatening, but Derek sees how tight his grip on the handle is and knows that he’s ready to use it at a second’s notice.

There are a few already healing cuts and bruises visible on the omega’s skin, and that’s how Derek can tell that Stiles has already used the bat. Now that he’s closer, he can finally smell the foreign blood that previously had been masked by the almost overwhelming stench. This omega, a guy with red hair and savage blue eyes, smells _terrible_. Like death and murder and insanity, and Derek wants nothing like that near Stiles ever again.

He moves so that he’s standing next to Stiles, and growls at the omega. Attention successfully diverted, the omega glares at him, and bares his own teeth. Stiles sucks in a deep breath. “I’m okay,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not hurt. Other than a shitton of running, I’m fine.”

Derek can’t speak, so he just nudges Stiles’s free hand with his muzzle and then turns back to the omega, who’s watching him with distrust and what looks like contempt.

“I think you’re only pissing him off more,” Stiles murmurs, hefting his bat over his shoulder, where he can easily gain momentum for a hit if need be.

He’s right, as usual - the omega is sniffing the air and evidently not liking how Stiles’s scent seems to cling to Derek, and vice versa. Maybe he wants Stiles as a snack. Or for shits and giggles. Whatever it is, Derek’s going to rip him apart because yeah, _no one fucking touches Stiles_.

He growls again, louder this time. The omega growls back, lips peeled back over sharp, yellow teeth. The glint in his blue killer’s eyes is disturbing. “I want,” he snarls, and points to Stiles with a revolting chipped brown claw.

Derek snarls right back, and moves in front of Stiles - almost face to face with the omega. His “oh _fuck_ no” is unspoken, but clear all the same. The omega clearly does not like this - he makes an angry sound deep within his throat and pounces on Derek.

This is possibly the most fatal mistake of his life - he’s an omega, and can’t shift all the way. Derek may not be an alpha, but he sure as hell is part of a pack, and a full wolf, and therefore stronger. He easily deflects the swipe of the omega’s claws that was aimed for his throat, and counters by taking a slice out of the omega’s thigh. The omega howls, blood spurting out of three long, deep gashes. Derek goes in again, not aiming to kill but to disable. He knocks the omega back against a tree, and takes a bite out of the calf on the injured leg.

The omega howls again, loud and agonized. Derek can smell his pain, plus Stiles’s anxiety. He can see Stiles at the edge of his peripheral vision, holding his bat at the ready and looking for an in.

The omega’s howl fades into a whimper, and he slumps against the tree, clearly conceding defeat. Derek looks him in the eyes for almost a minute, cowing him into submission. He does not let go until the omega looks away, but doesn’t turn his back on him either.

“Hey, Derek, you okay?” asks Stiles worriedly.

Derek licks his hand, nodding his big shaggy head. “Gross, dude,” Stiles tells him. “You’re supposed to be a badass werewolf, not a puppy.”

Derek would roll his eyes if he could, but instead settles for playfully bumping against Stiles. He doesn’t take his eyes off the omega, who’s watching them interact with what looks like hunger in his eyes.

He’s deranged, completely unhinged from reality. This much Derek knows - he’s killed two people already, but managed to evade them until now. He’s not sure how to deal with him, and figures they’ll just knock him out somehow and take him to Scott to be dealt with.

That plan goes down the drain the moment the omega pounces again.

This time he goes straight for Stiles, who was never off his guard and who swings his bat powerfully, interrupting the omega’s flight and diverting him into a nearby tree. The omega, dazed only for a second, is up and at Stiles again.

Derek gets to him before he can get to Stiles, jumping on him and knocking him flat on his back on the ground. He’s still pretty much on board with the entire “disable, don’t kill” plan (something about being in a pack with Scott does wonders for your morals) - right until the omega tries to take a bite out of his throat. Snarling, Derek deflects his mouth and proceeds to rip his throat out, splattering blood nearby (and all over Stiles). The omega twitches once, twice and then falls still.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” breathes Stiles, right next to him. He rolls off the corpse and gets to his feet, and nuzzles Stiles’s hand.

“I’m okay,” Stiles tells him quietly, sitting down next to him. “Just… wow. You killed him.”

Derek nods, sitting down as well.

“I suppose you didn’t have much of a choice.”

Derek nods again, and lays his head in Stiles’s lap. Stiles runs his fingers through his fur, and buries them in the thick scruff on his neck. Despite himself, Derek relaxes, and closes his eyes. He knows he has to shift back at some point, but he’s already coming down from the adrenalin high. That, coupled with his overwhelming relief at having Stiles safe and sound, makes him want to just go to sleep, right here.

“We have to bury the body.” Stiles is quite excellent at ruining moments, Derek’s discovered.

He sighs, and raises his head. Stiles is offering him a regretful look, like he doesn’t want to get up either. Derek snorts at Stiles, and then shifts back.

“Dude, you’re _naked._ ”

“I’m aware,” Derek replies dryly. He leans forward and puts his hands on Stiles’s shoulders. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” Stiles tells him, rolling his eyes. “No, Derek, for the twenty-ninth time I am not hurt.”

“Sorry if I annoyed you with my concern,” Derek snarks back. “Now, do you have a spare pair of pants in your Jeep or not?”

* * *

It takes them forty-five minutes to put some pants on Derek, dig a hole and bury the body, and then drive over to Stiles’s. Derek parks in the spot the Sheriff’s cruiser usually takes, and follows Stiles inside.

“You’re lucky it’s the middle of the night,” Stiles tells him. “A half-naked man following me home. _What would the neighbors say, Der-Der?”_

“Like you care,” snorts Derek. “And besides, the neighbors know about me. And don’t call me Der-Der,” he adds.

“Okay, Der-Der,” Stiles answers absently, locking the door behind them and making his way into the kitchen. He takes a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and drinks directly from it, draining half of it in one go. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and offers the remainder to Derek.

“No thanks,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. He drinks some water instead, and then they head upstairs.

“I call first shower,” Stiles says, “because it’s my house.” And before Derek can protest he grabs a towel, runs into the bathroom and locks the door.

He takes twenty minutes, during which Derek mucks around on Stiles’s laptop and watches cat videos to amuse himself. When Stiles is done, he takes his turn and exits ten minutes later to find Stiles already in bed, half-asleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, blinking up at Derek. “You gon’ stay t’night?”

Derek nods, and gets in next to him. It’s a close fit, mostly because Stiles insists on draping his limbs everywhere. True to form, he’s wrapped around Derek like a second skin not half a minute later. Derek wraps his arms back around Stiles, and says, “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up for school tomorrow.”

Stiles nods against Derek’s neck. “Goodnight,” he mutters against his skin. “And thanks. Y'know, for saving my ass. Not that I couldn't'a done it m'self. Jus' sayin'."

Derek smiles into Stiles's hair. "Yeah, of course," he says. "Goodnight, Stiles."

"'Night, Derek."

Just their luck, of course, that there's a crazy omega in town and it just _happens_ to find Stiles on a night that's close to the full moon. He knows Stiles can defend himself, and he is more than capable of saving his own furry ass, but if this sort of luck continues then their odds of surviving to even middle age aren't much.

Then again, he's faced worse odds. And with Stiles by his side? He's 100% willing to deal with their shitty luck, because he knows that together, there's no monster they can't put down.

(Scott is a _huge_ factor too, but if Derek admits that he'll ruin the moment, so he resorts to kissing Stiles and closing his eyes, falling asleep within seconds.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are _love_.
> 
> [tumblr.](http://chester--bennington.tumblr.com/)


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles isn't dealing well with college. Derek's suffering from kissing withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off some of my own experiences when I first began university, the only difference being that I commuted from home. College is hard, initially, not just the workload but the change in routine and the entire being in a different place thing. It's a lot to get used to. So I thought I could do something like that, especially for Stiles because it'd be hard for him to be away from his dad and the pack.
> 
> That said, though - once you're done through the initial turbulence, college is awesome.
> 
> So yeah. Nice long chapter, with enough kisses and fluff to rot your teeth (I'm a dental surgery student and perfectly willing to set up appointments).

This is it. Derek sees Stiles up on the stage next to Lydia, Scott and Malia, and thinks, _this is it._

Stiles is graduating today, and in a few weeks he leaves for college. Derek’s feeling pretty ambivalent about the entire thing, to be honest. Not because he doesn’t want Stiles to go to college - holy shit, he got into _Stanford_ \- but mainly because Stiles will be out of sight. He’ll have no way of knowing if something happens to Stiles.

He doesn’t like that they’ll be apart, even though Stanford isn’t even that far.

But Stiles is graduating today, and he’s up on stage and laughing with his friends and he looks so happy that Derek can’t make himself be sad for long. The Sheriff and Melissa are sitting right next to him, and he pretends that he can’t see them holding hands and crying. He’s feeling a bit emotional himself - he’s seen these people grow from children to adults in the space of two years, mature and become strong, independent people. This is his _pack_. The only thing that’s wrong with today is that Allison, Boyd and Erica aren’t here. Even Jackson and Isaac flew in to attend.

He catches the look on Scott’s face from afar - a sad, wistful smile - and nods at him. Of course Scott misses Allison today. Isaac, Stiles and Lydia are wearing the same look, and Derek wants to hug all of them and keep them safe.

Lydia’s valedictorian, of course she is, and her speech makes her mother smile so wide Derek thinks her face might fall off. Then again, he’s not going to sit and judge people on being emotional, not today, not when he’s resisting every urge to grab them, scream “MY BABIES” and run.

That would not go over well, he thinks. Plus, he’s got an _image_. A _reputation_.

(Stiles’s dad and Parrish would never let him live it down anyway. That’s probably the worst part of being a deputy - Parrish, the Sheriff and Stiles do enjoy ganging up on him. It isn’t _fair_. He is a _werewolf_. He’s _killed people_. He deserves _respect_ , dammit, he’s _serving the fucking community_.)

So he just leans back in his chair, and listens to Lydia speak, and occasionally rolls his eyes at the expression of rapt attention on Jackson’s face.

* * *

 

They celebrate later over at Lydia’s - her mom’s invited them all over, and even her dad’s there, for once making an effort to be civil to her mom. Derek can tell it makes Lydia happy, even though she’s trying her best to appear unaffected.

He catches Stiles in the kitchen just before dinner and traps him against the counter, leaning forward with arms on either side of Stiles. Once this might have intimidated the human; now he just smirks and leans in closer. “Hey there, Derek,” he says cheerfully, like their noses aren’t half an inch apart.

“Hey,” breathes Derek. “How’s it going?”

Stiles laughs, and it makes Derek’s heart soar. “Wow, you’re smooth,” he teases, and presses a kiss to his lips.

“I am,” Derek agrees, “which is how I know exactly what to do at this moment.” Before Stiles can reply Derek kisses him, and instead of a soft kiss like Stiles’s had been, it’s rough and exhilarating. Stiles responds almost immediately, lips sliding together and a puff of breath escaping his mouth that drives Derek _insane_ with need.

“What’s the hurry?” Stiles manages to ask, even with Derek biting his bottom lip.

“You’re leaving for college soon,” Derek tells him. One hand finds its way under Stiles’s white button-up. “Might as well kiss you as much as I can.”

Stiles laughs again. “It’s college, dude, not purgatory or something. I’ll visit a lot.”

“I know,” Derek says simply. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, so he just leans in and kisses Stiles again. Despite his almost overwhelming want a moment ago, this time he takes it slow and gentle, placing his hands on Stiles’s waist and rubbing small circles into his hips with his thumbs. Stiles responds by wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck, tangling his fingers in Derek’s hair-

“Ahem.”

They break apart, flushing, to find Lydia’s mom standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and a wry smile on her face. “I asked you to check on the pot roast, Stiles, not make out with your boyfriend.”

“Sorry,” mutters Stiles, skin deliciously red, “but he’s very hot, you know.”

She rolls her eyes, and Derek can totally see where Lydia gets that from. They’re scarily similar. “You’re lucky the pot roast is fine,” she tells him a minute later, after checking on it. “Or I’d have made you and your ‘hot’ boyfriend cook something else.”

“That would not end well,” Stiles assures her. “We would be too busy with more fun stuff.”

“Save it for later,” she says, and grins. “It’ll be much better.” Then she winks, and leaves.

“What.” Stiles stares after her.

“Who cares,” grumbles Derek. “The fucking pot roast is fine, which is excellent because it means we don’t have to worry about it.” He leans in, and kisses Stiles again.

“Stop making out!” Lydia’s mom calls out from the living-room, and Stiles sighs.

“Killjoy.”

* * *

Derek thinks this may as well be the best summer of his life.

They spend it all together, the entire pack. They go on a road trip, they go fishing and hunting, they go camping… everything and anything that they haven’t done before. Even the monsters seem to be holding off for a bit - they’re only attacked by three vampires and one fairy, all of whom are easily taken care of.

But mostly Derek spends a lot of time alone with Stiles, sneaking into his room at night and just lying with him, talking about nothing, kissing him softly and gently like he’ll never get to do so another time. It’s irrational and he doesn’t understand it himself - all he knows is that it’s going to make him truly miserable to see Stiles leave.

He’s not the only one either - Scott and Liam have expressed numerous times how much they’ll miss Stiles, and so has Lydia. Malia seems surprisingly okay with it, and Derek suspects that most probably she’s planning something with Kira and Mason (whom she’s taken a liking to). He has a feeling that two weeks into Stiles’s first semester he’s going to get a call along the lines of “is there a rational explanation for a werecoyote, a kitsune and an exhausted human asleep on my bed?”

So he just savors whatever time he has left before Stiles will leave, and makes each kiss feel like there’ll never be one to better it.

* * *

Come fall, he drives up to Stanford with the Stilinskis and helps Stiles move in. He understands that Stiles and his dad need some time, so he follows the Jeep in his Camaro and ignores the lump in his throat every time he catches sight of the cartons in the rearview mirror. Up ahead he can see Stiles and his dad talking, and occasionally Stiles reaches out and places a hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder.

He helps Stiles move into his room, and pretends not to see the Sheriff discreetly wiping his eyes every now and then. Stiles acts like he’s oblivious but Derek can tell he’s sad too. None of them comment on it though - they’re all determined not to make it real until they absolutely have to.

The Sheriff and Stiles both cry when it’s time for them to leave. Derek stands awkwardly at the side, trying to look anywhere but at them. His eyes go over the desk Stiles has just organized, the toiletries visible through the open bathroom door, the bag at the foot of his bed; and all this time he can easily hear Stiles promising to call, and the Sheriff promising to look after himself and eat healthy (the last one a bit reluctantly). Then finally it’s Derek’s turn, and he knows if he cries Stiles will start again, and so he doesn’t.

“I’ll miss you,” he says gruffly as they hug.

“I’ll miss you too, big guy,” Stiles tells him. “But I’ll call. And we can always have Skype sex.”

The Sheriff makes a face. “Is that even a thing - wait no, forget it, I don’t want to know.”

Stiles pulls away from Derek and grins at his dad. Derek notes that they’re still holding hands. “Just for the record,” the Sheriff says, “there will be no Skype sex. And if there is, _I do not wish to hear about it._ ”

Derek leans down, whispers something in Stiles’s ear, and then nibbles gently on his earlobe. He enjoys Stiles’s wide-eyed grin that results, as well as the Sheriff’s increasingly horrified look. “I’m out,” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air and making a hasty exit.

Stiles still doesn’t let go of Derek’s hand; instead he leans in and kisses him. Derek kisses back, and it finally hits him that yeah, _this is it_. Stiles is at college. The next time they kiss is whenever Stiles comes back… which might not be till winter.

He wraps both arms around Stiles’s waist and holds him closer, ignoring the little squeak of indignation. He doesn’t let go until Stiles digs a finger into his side and exclaims, “I can’t breathe, dude! And this is not the fun kind of not being able to breathe!”

Derek steps away. “Sorry.” He doesn’t take his arms away from around Stiles, just loosens his hold a little.

Stiles grins softly at him. “You really will miss me, won’t you?”

Derek nods.

“Don’t forget to do your grocery.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I’ll try.”

“Be nice to Scott.”

“Do I have to?”

“ _Derek_.”

“Fine.” He sighs in a very put-upon manner. It makes Stiles smile again, though he looks a little sad now.

“And hey, call me if there’s anything you people need help with, okay? Anything at all. Or if you just wanna talk. Because you miss me. Or anything, really.” He trails off with an awkward cough.

Derek correctly translates it to, “You want me to call because you’ll miss me.”

“Oh look, you can use words!” Stiles exclaims happily, though Derek catches a waver in his voice.

Before he can say something back, the Sheriff calls from outside, “Derek! Get out here before I have to arrest one of you!”

“Daaaaad!” Stiles whines, unwrapping himself from around Derek and walking outside, Derek following him. “I’m an _adult_ now! I can do whatever I want!”

“Sure, son,” says the Sheriff with an eyeroll, but he’s fighting a wistful smile.

There’s some more hugging and some more crying, and then Derek’s driving away, the Sheriff in the front seat with him, unabashedly looking at his son in the rearview mirror until Derek takes a turn and Stiles is out of sight. They don’t speak to each other on the drive home - they don’t need to.

* * *

Life goes on. Derek throws himself into his work and into pack and does not let himself have free time because that would lead to thinking which would lead to missing Stiles. There are still moments though, when he turns around expecting to see Stiles at his shoulder but instead just finds empty space; when someone cracks a joke and Stiles’s happy laughter is missing; when there’s a case and there’s no one trying to smuggle files out of the office under his nose. He notices how quiet everything seems now - even the Sheriff’s department is silent, with either him or Parrish occasionally saying something case-related or the Sheriff replying. It feels so _dull_ , without Stiles to swing by and crack jokes and bitch at his dad about healthy food and banter with Parrish.

There are a couple of kelpies and another wendigo, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Liam, Kira, Malia and Scott help out when they can. Scott’s taking an online degree so he can still stay home with his mother and protect the town, and Malia and Kira go to the local community college. Derek’s not even sure about Lydia - first she went to Yale but then transferred to MIT and he’s not sure if she’s still there or not. She gets bored easily, and can’t seem to decide on a major.

Liam and Mason have started this new thing where they come over to his place after school, and just sit in silence and do their homework. He doesn’t mind - Liam is pack and by extension, so is Mason. It’s kind of nice to have people around his place again, anyway. Sometimes he plays video games with them, or cooks them dinner. If it gets too late he’ll let them stay over and drop them off to school the next day. They remind him of Scott and Stiles when they’d been sixteen - all naïve and idealistic and so, so innocent.

He calls Stiles every evening and they Skype whenever they can. Stiles is doing well, he says, getting used to his classes and apparently he’s made a _ton_ of friends, “No really, Derek, _so many friends_ ” and Derek wishes he was close enough to be able to tell if Stiles is lying or not. Something doesn’t seem right, but Derek puts it down to the entire process of getting used to a new place and adjusting to a totally new routine.

* * *

It’s the middle of the night, three weeks after Stiles has left, and Derek’s phone’s ringing. He wakes up and glares blearily at the screen, and then tenses up - it says _Stiles_ and there’s something about it that seems urgent, because it’s Tuesday night and _shouldn’t Stiles be asleep?_

His brain has this thing where it immediately starts going through the worst-case scenarios, and he practically pokes a hole in the phone in his hurry to pick up. “Stiles, are you okay?” he all but yells the minute the line connects.

“I’m - I’m fine,” Stiles informs him, and there’s something wrong with his voice, his breathing is off-

“Stiles?”

“Derek, I -” Stiles sighs in frustration, and Derek can picture him tugging at the ends of his own hair in irritation. “Derek, I can’t sleep,” he admits, and then begins speaking so fast it’s difficult for Derek to comprehend, “I can’t sleep at all and it’s _not okay_ nothing is okay, Derek, I feel like I’m freaking out, and I know it’s _supposed_ to be difficult in the beginning but I _hate_ it here, Derek, _I hate it so much_ nothing is alright-”

“Stiles, hey,” Derek barks, halting the onslaught of words. “Listen to me. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and Derek hates that it comes out like a whimper. “I just didn’t know what to do.”

“Stiles?” There’s a dull-edged stab of panic in the pits of Derek’s stomach. “Stiles, are you safe?”

“I’m okay,” Stiles tells him, and takes a deep breath. “It’s just… I haven’t really been sleeping, you know? I don’t know why, it wasn’t that bad in the beginning but now it’s just _impossible_ , it feels like I can’t shut my brain off, you know? Everything is _too much_ , and I just realized I didn’t bring my pillow with me. How fucking dumb is that?” There’s a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m a fucking adult, and I can’t sleep because I don’t have a stupid pillow with me.”

To Derek’s horror, there’s a sniff. “Stiles?” he repeats dumbly, not knowing how to deal with this. Stiles is clearly _not okay_ , but he’s also so many miles away and there’s no way for Derek to be near him right now, and Derek _hates_ this.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles repeats, and sniffs again. “I’m being an idiot, I know. I just can’t help it - I know college is supposed to be fun and everything but Derek, I _hate_ it here! And I miss you and my dad and Scotty and Liam and everyone, and I just wanna come home. It’s just so lonely here.”

“You said you had friends?” Derek asks, belatedly realizing it may not be the appropriate thing to say.

“I lied,” Stiles replies hoarsely, uttering a mirthless laugh. “I didn’t want you to worry. My roommates are assholes, they treat me like I’m a small-town _child_ who doesn’t know anything, and everyone else thinks I’m weird. I just - I just wanna come _home_.”

“Have you talked to your dad?” inquires Derek. Maybe Stiles just misses his dad, and it’s manifesting in… whatever _this_ is.

“Yeah, I did,” Stiles tell him. “But like, I didn’t tell him all this. I don’t want him to worry. Don’t you dare mention this to him,” he adds fiercely.

“I won’t,” Derek promises. “Stiles, listen to me, okay? I know how you feel, and believe me, I understand. It sucks, and it’s lonely and it feels like you don’t belong. But hey, you’re strong, Stiles.” He pauses, takes a deep breath and wonders what to say that could possibly make Stiles feel better. “Stiles, you can _do_ this. You’ve faced so much worse, and you’ve survived. College should be a piece of cake, right?”

There’s a silence on the other end. Just when Derek begins to panic at the thought that he might have said the wrong thing, or Stiles might have stopped listening, or something _worse_ , the kid says, with a heavy sigh, “You’re right, Derek. I just need - I just need to deal with it.” He sounds like he’s still trying to convince himself. “I should be fine, right? It’s probably normal, all of this.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, though his heart is heavy. “I’ll Skype you tomorrow, okay? I need you to take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Stiles promises. “I’m sorry I woke you up.” He huffs. “I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Derek contradicts at once. “No, you’re not. I’m glad you woke me up, okay? Call me any time.”

“Okay,” says Stiles agreeably. There’s a pause, and then, “I love you.” His voice is shaking a little again.

“I love you too,” Derek replies softly. “Now go get some rest, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Stiles says again. “Thanks,” he adds, voice small and somewhat hesitant.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Derek tells him gruffly. “Now _go_ , you need your sleep.”

But he can’t sleep. Every instinct inside him wants him to get in his car and drive all the way to Palo Alto, and maybe rip out Stiles’s roommates’ throats because they’re assholes. However, the logical part of him, the part he _really_ hates right now, knows that this is something that Stiles needs to face on his own.

It doesn’t look like he’ll be falling asleep any time soon, so instead he gets out of bed, puts on Netflix and watches a couple of Stiles’s favorite movies (it's _not_ sappy, okay, _he can do whatever he wants_ and he's not watching the movies _just_ because they're associated with Stiles and - okay yeah whatever, shut  _up_ ), all the while trying to ignore the gnawing worry eating away at him from the inside.

* * *

They Skype the next day, and even with the shitty webcam Derek can tell that Stiles’s eyes are red and have dark shadows under them. He frowns - the last time they’d Skyped had been three days ago, and those hadn’t been there then. He wonders when was the last time Stiles had any sleep, but doesn’t ask.

“How are you?” is what he asks instead, and hates that it takes Stiles a few seconds to come up with an answer.

“Okayish,” Stiles tells him, and offers a wan smile. “You?”

“I’m fine,” Derek replies. He’s just about to say something more when another face appears on the screen, a boy with dark hair and gray eyes and a smirk that Derek instantly dislikes.

“Hey Stilinski, that your boyfriend?” he asks, shoving Stiles.

“Yeah, now fuck off,” snaps Stiles. The boy just laughs and shoves Stiles again, with enough force this time to make him fall off his chair.

Derek can feel his blood pressure rising as he hears raucous laughter in the background, and Stiles cursing. The camera shakes a little as Stiles gets to his feet, and then all Derek can see is the middle of Stiles’s shirt as he apparently carries the laptop somewhere else.

“Pretend you never saw that,” Stiles says a minute later, and he sounds so very tired. There's grass and trees in the background, so Derek figures Stiles is outdoors.

“Stiles, why are you letting them treat you like this?” Derek asks, bewildered and angry. Stiles has beaten monsters into submission with nothing but a baseball bat. Why is he letting three teenage boys step all over him?

“Because in civilized societies, it is in fact frowned upon to beat people up with a baseball bat,” Stiles promptly tells him.

“Get a room change,” Derek suggests, feeling a little relieved that at least Stiles can still snark at him.

“I applied,” Stiles tells him. “But you know how it is, yeah? It’ll take some time to process, and all that shit.”

So until that happens, obviously there’s not much either of them can do except wait it out. Except… “Hey, you sure no one’s around?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, why?”

“Okay, I have an idea,” Derek tells him. “So… how good are you with pranks?”

He watches a grin grow slowly on Stiles’s face, and slowly a devious expression takes over. “Why, _Derek_. Are you suggesting I carry out good, old-fashioned fuckery?”

Derek can’t help but roll his eyes, but he’s smiling too. Stiles looks genuinely gleeful right now, which Derek knows isn’t on the same level as _happy_ (more _I'm going to make some people cry for Mommy_ than  _I am happy and fine and all is_ _well_ , to be honest), but it’s all he can do for now and that’s not so bad either. “Well,” he says, “I hear you and Scott have pulled off some pretty spectacular shit over the years.”

“That we have, my man, that we have,” Stiles tells him happily. He was the mastermind of their senior prank just before graduation. Derek’s pretty sure Coach Finstock is never going to be the same again.

Nor is he ever likely to get Stiles’s name wrong, that much is sure.

Derek watches, a smile on his face, as Stiles animatedly begins talking about “the _possibilities_ , Derek, you fucking genius” and “holy shit they are going to _suffer_ ”, and he knows it should make him happy that Stiles feels better but he still hates how far they are and how he can’t be near Stiles, not without a hours-long drive.

He sighs after he hangs up the call, an hour later. He misses Stiles so much it feels like a visceral ache.

* * *

He spends all of Thursday and most of Friday at the station, working. Parrish reminds him of when groceries need doing, and the Sheriff tries to get Derek to sneak in some bacon for him but Derek tells him, very solemnly, “Sir, _your health_. It’s _important_. Plus, if Stiles ever finds out we’re both dead.” In the background Parrish is holding back laughter.

Yeah, Derek figures two grown men scared of a teenager _does_ seem funny, but obviously Parrish has never seen Stiles with his bat, or he’d be singing a different tune. Derek makes a mental note to invite him along next time there’s a case, see how he deals with the sight of Stiles swinging that bat about and beating the everliving shit out of whatever’s unlucky enough to come in his way.

Even _Derek’s_ a bit scared of that bat, and he _knows_ that Stiles would never hurt him.

Friday evening he finishes his shift and calls the Sheriff. “I’m going up to see Stiles,” he tells him. “Do you want to come?”

The Sheriff is quiet for a few moments, and then he says, “He’s not okay, is he?”

“No,” Derek replies candidly. He’s the kid’s dad, he’d have figured it out eventually anyway.

The Sheriff sighs. “Okay. O _kay_. You go see him, and I’ll go next weekend.”

“You could come with?” Derek suggests. It would do Stiles a world of good to see his dad, though if Derek’s being honest with himself he _would_ prefer it if he were alone. Most of his talking with Stiles is done with tongue anyway, which isn’t something you want to do in front of your boyfriend’s dad - who’s also your boss.

Just no.

“Derek, son,” the Sheriff begins in a very plaintive tone, “the thing with you two is that you keep forgetting I was a kid too, once. And damn straight I’ve been up to the same crap you two get up to, and _really_ , I have no wish of seeing my son and his boyfriend make out all over the place while I awkwardly third-wheel about. Go, and please, when you’re telling Parrish all about it, _spare me the details._ ”

That is some information that Derek thinks he could have done without, and now he’s trying really hard not to imagine the Sheriff kissing someone.

Oh, _fuck_. Derek really hates the Stilinskis sometimes. He’s going to need some brain bleach now.

“Derek?”

“Yes, I, uh, okay,” Derek manages to say, very eloquently. “I’ll, uh, see you soon?”

“Sure, kid,” the Sheriff replies, now with obvious mirth in his voice. Derek can totally see where Stiles gets it from.

* * *

He doesn’t tell Stiles he’s coming, wants to surprise him and treasure the expression on his face when he sees Derek. He’s an old sap that way, wants to keep that moment between just himself and Stiles and no one else.

Stiles calls while he’s driving, and Derek has to spend a painful hour pretending he’s on his couch at home watching TV, all the while trying to muffle the car sounds and everything else that might indicate he’s lying. Stiles sounds way too tired to figure it out anyway, which concerns Derek but for now he’s not going to complain.

He reaches Palo Alto at 9 PM, and beelines straight for Stanford. He knows he’ll have to find himself a place to stay for the night, especially if Stiles can’t keep him in his dorm, but he’s decided to worry about all that later. Right now, he just needs to see Stiles.

He realizes something as he approaches campus - he doesn’t know where Stiles’s room is. He resists the urge to facepalm. _You idiot_ , he tells himself, and then decides to dial Scott.

“What is it?” Scott answers, sounding a bit annoyed. “I’m out with Kira.”

“Congratulations,” Derek tells him drily. “What’s Stiles’s room number?”

There’s a pause, and then, “You’re at _Stanford_? Does Stiles know?”

“No, I wanted to surprise him,” Derek says. “And yeah, he forgot his pillow, so I got him that.”

There’s another pause as Scott figures it out. “He’s not happy,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” Derek replies softly. “I thought it might help, if I went to see him.”

“I hope so,” Scott says. “He’s in Kimball, room 184. Say hi from me, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He hangs up and sets about finding a parking space. There’s a ball of nervousness in his stomach, and he wonders why he feels like a teenager on his first date. Or maybe it’s because frankly, he’s a little bit scared of what state he might find Stiles in.

 _Cut it out,_ he tells himself. _Stiles isn’t a fragile child, or made of glass._

It takes him five minutes to consult the floor guide and find Stiles’s room. He can hear sounds of laughter and loud talking as he approaches, but none of the voices sound like Stiles’s. He tries to sniff the air but the smell of pizza, beer and sex is too strong, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

He knocks on the door, just to be polite, but there’s no indication from within that anyone’s even heard him. Gritting his teeth, he raises his fist to knock again but changes his mind at the last moment and pushes the door open.

The first thing he sees is the mess all over the room - beer cans, empty pizza cartons and holy shit, dirty laundry _everywhere_. There are three teenage boys throwing things at each other and evidently taking no note of their squalid room, laughing and swearing and shoving each other. They don’t seem to notice Derek at all.

Stiles is on the top bunk of the farthest bunk bed, wearing headphones and completely engrossed in a book. How he can even focus in this place Derek has no fucking idea, but then again Stiles has always been exceptional, hasn’t he?

“Hey!” yells Derek, and that’s when the three boys notice him. Stiles’s music is loud enough to be heard from the doorway, so he doesn’t even blink, just absently turns a page and reads on. Derek takes a second to fall in love with him all over again - he’s got his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth and looks very intense, a small frown on his face.

“Who the fuck are you?” asks a guy with dark hair and eyes, rudely interrupting Derek’s creepy staring.

Derek doesn’t deign to answer. Satisfied that they’ve noticed him and won’t be in his way, he takes the few steps over to the bunk bed and reached up, lightly tapping Stiles on the ankle.

His reaction is instantaneous - he yells and jumps violently, dropping his book. “Dude what the fuck-” he begins angrily, and then his eyes go wide. “Derek?”

Derek smirks at him. “No, this is his twin brother.”

Stiles all but rips his headphones off and scrambles off the bunk, nearly falling right into Derek’s arms. “Whoa - steady,” Derek teases, wrapping a hand around his arm and steadying him.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, looking absolutely gobsmacked.

“I came to see you,” Derek answers, and offers him a smile. “How are you?”

“Right now? Absolutely fucking wonderful,” Stiles tells him, and Derek thinks his answering smile could easily power a small town. But then he frowns. “Everything okay? Back home?”

“Everything’s fine,” Derek assures him. “I just missed you.” He leans in and kisses Stiles, giving exactly zero shits about Stiles’s roommates.

“That’s his boyfriend, I assume,” says one of them, and Derek has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. _No shit_ , he thinks, and wraps his arms around Stiles.

“No shit,” echoes the third boy. “That’s the dude he Skypes all the time.”

Stiles shifts a little, pressing into the kiss, hands clutching tightly at Derek’s back. There’s every chance of this turning into a make-out session, which Derek is really looking forward to but totally not in front of Stiles’s roommates.

“Let’s go outside,” he says breathlessly, once they break apart.

“Sure,” Stiles answers, just as breathless.

* * *

They walk through the campus in the cool night air, holding hands and not talking, just soaking in each other’s company. There had been some more kissing and a bit of groping as well, but they’d decided to save it for later.

“How’ve you been? Honestly,” Derek adds, knowing Stiles might lie again.

Stiles hesitates. “Up and down, you know how it is,” he finally says. “Then again, first year’s supposed to be hard, right?”

Derek nods, and squeezes Stiles’s fingers a little. “It’ll get better,” he says, and this is one thing he’s actually sure of. His own first year at college had been truly shittastic, but it had become better once he’d gotten used to it.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, exhaling. He leans a little into Derek’s side. “So I’ve just got to ride it out, yeah? Just… just deal with it.”

Instead of answering, Derek just brings their intertwined hands up to his mouth and kisses Stiles’s knuckles. “You’ll be fine,” he promises.

“Yeah,” repeats Stiles, and that particular conversation is finished. “So - how are things back home?”

“Everything’s good,” Derek replies. “Your dad’s eating healthy, Parrish is still annoying, Scott still spends 98% of his time making heart eyes at Kira, and Malia has teamed up with Liam and Mason to take over my place.”

Stiles laughs wistfully. “I really miss you all,” he admits. Then he adds, “but how can you find Parrish annoying? He’s like an older Scott!”

“I find Scott annoying too,” Derek reminds him, but with a grin that indicates he’s only kidding. Mostly. “And for your information, just because he’s super nice to you doesn’t mean he’s an actual angel. He glued my files to my desk because I didn’t let him have the last slice of pizza.”

“That’s… impressive,” Stiles says, and Derek makes a face. Not the reaction he was hoping for. Some sympathy would be nice. He’s already _suffered_ enough, he doesn’t need this shit.

“Impressive?” he repeats. “Stiles, for once, _please_ will you take my side.”

“Hey, you gotta admit it takes balls of steel to fuck with you,” Stiles says, and ducks when Derek tries to poke him in the side.

“Unbelievable,” he grouches, though inwardly, if he’s being honest with himself, he feels like he could happily just stay here with Stiles forever.

Stiles laughs again, a happy and carefree sound. He looks like he’s about to say something and tease Derek some more, but before he can do so Derek leans and kisses him again. Stiles’s response is instantaneous, as usual. The kiss is deeper, slower than anything previous, and Derek feels like he’s in heaven. He had no idea how much he’s really missed it, not until now, and it hurts to think that he’ll have to go back to Beacon Hills and leave Stiles back here.

They only stop when Derek’s pretty sure his lungs will burst from lack of air. Stiles leans his forehead against Derek’s and asks, “Do you have any place to stay?”

“We’ll find a motel,” Derek replies, softly running his thumb across Stiles’s cheekbone. “You haven’t got any assignments or anything, do you?”

“Nothing too much,” Stiles tells him. “I’ll get my stuff, why don’t you get the car?”

“Okay,” agrees Derek, but doesn’t move.

“Derek?” Stiles says a second or so later, mirth coloring his tone, “not that I don’t love this, believe me I do, but… you’re going to have to let go of me for a bit.”

“No.”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid.” Stiles presses a final kiss to his lips before wriggling out of Derek’s arms. “Don’t worry, I won’t ditch you for Toby.”

“Toby?”

“The redhead. Assholus Maximus.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Bet you he’s terrible in bed.”

“He is, his one night stands are always complaining,” Stiles answers with a grin. “All right, I’ll see you in a bit.” He turns and jogs off in the direction of the building. Derek watches him until he disappears, before returning to his car.

* * *

They drive around for twenty minutes before they find a motel. Stiles spends this time chattering excitedly about some of his classes and playing with the radio. Derek spends this time trying to bat Stiles’s hands away from the volume button.

“And we’ll never be _roooooo-yals_ -”

“For the love of God, Stiles!”

“It don’t run in our blood!”

“Stiles, I’m warning you-”

“THAT KINDA LUX JUST AIN’T FOR US-”

Derek turns the radio off and glares at Stiles, who pouts and crosses his arms. “You are such a _child_ ,” he tells him.

As if to prove his point, Stiles sticks out his tongue at Derek, who rolls his eyes and turns back to the road. He can see Stiles’s hand reaching for the radio, right at the edge of his peripheral vision, but this time he doesn’t make a move to stop it. He’s seeing Stiles after weeks. They’re not going to argue over a stupid song. They’re _not_.

Stiles turns the volume up to an almost deafening level. Derek groans to himself.

* * *

“Hey, Derek?” Stiles says later on that night, lying on a ratty motel couch with his head in Derek’s lap. “Thanks. For coming.”

Derek smiles warmly down at him, and buries a hand in his hair. “Don’t thank me. You needed me.”

“I’d do the same for you,” Stiles tells him earnestly, looking up at him through those long, thick eyelashes. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” Derek replies. He takes Stiles’s hand with his free one and kisses it. “You’ve done much more difficult things for me. You’ve risked your _life_ for me.”

“It’s ‘cause I love you,” Stiles says, and intertwines their fingers, before turning on his side and burrowing his face into Derek's stomach. A few seconds later Derek hears soft snores.

“I love you too,” he whispers, though he knows Stiles can't hear him.

* * *

Derek watches as Stiles types rapidly into his laptop, a look of intense concentration on his face. Staying true to his tradition of ruining moments, Stiles only just remembered his unfinished assignment halfway through being on the receiving end of an epic blowjob. It's probably the weirdest sexual experience Derek has had, and that's saying something.

(For fuck's sake, it's not everyday your boyfriend goes from moaning your name to “HOLY SHIT I FORGOT MY INTRO TO PSYCH PAPER” in 0.3 seconds. Stiles is lucky Derek hadn't accidentally bitten his dick off in his surprise and alarm.)

“Almost done,” Stiles mutters, thankfully jolting Derek out of his disturbing reverie. “Just need to type up the conclusion.”

“You're beautiful,” Derek says to that, abruptly. Stiles looks up, confusion coloring his features.

“Huh?”

“You're beautiful,” Derek repeats, because it's corny as fuck and also true and also something that Stiles needs to hear. It's been too many years of rejection and heartbreak and being sidelined and two words aren't going to fix that, but dammit Derek can and Derek _will_ try. Stiles needs to hear and know this, needs to _believe_ it.

“What's that got to do with the conclusion of my paper?” Stiles asks, still confused.

“Nothing,” Derek says. “I just need you to know it.” He kisses the side of Stiles's head, and takes a seat next to him at the table.

Stiles still looks perplexed, and Derek sighs. “It's not that hard to understand, Stiles.”

An uncertain smile forms on his face. “You really think so, don't you?”

“No, I just have a thing for dating trolls and calling them beautiful,” snarks Derek, rolling his eyes. _So fucking dense sometimes_ , he thinks.

Stiles huffs. “Rude.” But he's smirking.

“It's true, though,” Derek says after a second. “It really is.”

This time Stiles's smile is genuine and breathtaking, and Derek can't help but smile back. It's sappy as fuck, the two of them in a nondescript motel, smiling at each other stupidly across a rickety wooden table, but whatever. Derek stopped giving fucks at some point just before falling asleep with Stiles in his lap the night before.

“You should probably finish that paper,” Derek finally says, when it feels like his face might permanently be disfigured into that expression.

“Hm, yeah,” Stiles hums, but Derek notices he's still smiling even as he goes back to typing.

He's become a total sap. He's turning into Scott. Next thing they know he'll be making heart eyes at Stiles in public, and doing silly things like brushing his hair out of his eyes, or holding his hand, or kissing – basically being the nauseating kind of couple Scott and Kira are.

He's a bloody _werewolf_. He's dark and _mysterious_ and he's got a _reputation_. He can't just be acting like the protagonist of a teenage movie in public. That's  _Scott's_ job.

A second later, Derek realizes he doesn't care. He gives no fucks about any of it – if it makes Stiles smile like that, he'll do anything. Because he's not-so-secretly a sappy, romantic loser that way.

* * *

“Absolutely _amazing_ ,” Derek tells Parrish solemnly, two wonderful days later. “Some of the best sex I've ever had.”

Parrish makes a face. “I really don't need to know, Derek.”

“I don't either!” the Sheriff calls out from inside his office. “This is my son you're talking about, there are _limits_!”

“Why're you eavesdropping, then?” Derek yells back, a positively devilish grin on his face.

As expected, the Sheriff stomps out of his office half a minute later, looking like someone had just pissed in his coffee. “I'm going on patrol,” he informs them grumpily.

“But it's my turn today–” Parrish begins.

“No, _I'm_ going on patrol,” the Sheriff repeats, and makes his exit. Parrish gapes after him, looking dismayed.

“So, where was I?” asks Derek, a smug grin on his face. “Ah, yes. All the incredible sex I had this weekend. While you ran patrols and brought in small-time thieves and juvie offenders.”

Parrish groans, and resigns himself to at least a week of Derek turning the tables on him and irritating him within an inch of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone here have a similar college experience? How was it for you?
> 
> Feedback pls <3


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hunt goes south and Stiles ends up falling through thin ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of my favorites :D a lot of research went into this, okay.  
> There is fluff (of course, that's the point of this entire thing), and snark, and banter, and bad Twilight analogies. Also Stiles likes to complain about his balls.

“I’m gonna freeze my balls off,” Stiles moans for the twenty-ninth time (Derek knows. He’s been counting).

“No you’re not,” he replies dismissively.

“I totally am! And unlike _your_ balls, _mine won’t grow back_!”

“Mine won’t grow back either if they actually did shrivel up and fall off,” Derek tells him. Stiles perks up at that.

“Really? Wow. Do you think we could have prosthetic balls put in? I could _literally_ have balls of steel-”

“There are _so many reasons_ that that’s a bad idea, Stiles. Would you like me to list them now, or would you prefer I did it later while you get your ballsack stitched back together by Melissa?”

Stiles’s horrified expression is enough to let Derek know exactly _what_ he thinks of that idea.

“No? Okay, good. Can we get back to hunting the fucking Adlet?”

Stiles huffs, his breath misting in front of his face. “Why Alaska,” he mumbles to himself, sticking close to Derek’s side. “Why did it have to be Alaska. Why not Hawaii?”

Derek doesn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. Sadly, it only encourages Stiles to talk more. Derek loves him, truly he does, but sometimes he does miss his silence. On top of all that, Adlets are sneaky motherfuckers and Derek doesn’t want to be caught by surprise. He relays as much to Stiles, who just keeps on making faces and randomly swinging his bat around.

“Dude, I could have told you that. I _did_ tell you that.”

“Then you should know better than to complain.”

“Hey, I’m not the one with super werewolf body temperature, okay? It’s colder for me than it is for you. Plus you’re not being nice and sharing body heat!”

“Do you think this is fucking _Twilight_ , where I’ll willingly strip down and cuddle you to keep you warm?”

There is a silence, and Derek realizes his mistake. “Dude.” Stiles sounds shocked and a little bit disbelieving. “ _Why_ the fuck do you know what happens in _Twilight_?”

“Why do _you_?” retorts Derek, hoping to deflect.

To his surprise, it actually works. “Malia made me watch it so she could better impress on me the dangers of being a measly human in a group of supernatural morons. She failed to realize that the movie is shit, and - _why are you grinning_?”

“Because,” Derek replies, his grin widening, “that means Malia thought you’re Bella.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “What? Oh _fuck_ no!” he bursts out. “I am not that sad, pathetic excuse for a human! For your information, when you’d left Beacon Hills, _my life was perfectly okay_! I didn’t become catatonic, or - wait.” He stops, and turns a devious grin of his own on Derek. “If I’m Bella… you’re a sparkly emo limpdick.”

Derek growls deep in his throat. “Take that back.”

Stiles waggles his eyebrows, grinning cheekily. “Do I _dazzle_ you?”

“Stiles, _no_ ,” Derek groans. “Just no. I am very sorely tempted to dump you here and start going out with - with -” he racks his brains. “Coach Finstock!”

“Dude, eww,” Stiles says, pulling yet another face. “He’s like, fifty.”

Derek’s just about to retort when he hears something. He stops in his tracks, holding an arm out for Stiles and putting a finger to his lips in the universal sign for “Shh”. Immediately Stiles shuts up, his entire body tensing as he tries to catch what Derek’s caught on to.

“It’s nearby,” Derek whispers. “I can hear it. And smell it.” And _damn_ , does it stink.

Stiles nods, and hefts his bat over his shoulder. Derek shifts partway, claws and fangs at the ready. Stiles looks like he’s holding in a grin, and Derek knows why - but it’s not his fault his eyebrows fucking vanish or whatever. _He_ didn’t get to choose his shifted face.

The Adlet bursts into their line of vision a few long seconds later, pouncing out from behind a huge snowbank. It lands a few feet in front of them, spraying snow everywhere. Derek was there when Stiles was researching it, and he thought he’d be fine, but it’s still jarring to see the lower body of a dog on the human torso and head.

The Adlet stands to its full height, towering a good two feet over them. It bares its fangs and snarls, and Derek winces at the gust of bad breath.

“Mother _fuck_ ,” Stiles whispers next to him, sounding awestruck and a little terrified. “How’re we supposed to kill it, dude?”

Derek doesn’t answer - he’s too busy locked in a staring contest of sorts with the Adlet, both of them waiting to see who will back down first. Stiles is standing at his side, fully alert, bat at the ready and muscles tensed.

“Can it talk?” Derek whispers to Stiles, not breaking eye contact.

“No fucking idea,” Stiles replies, eyes trained on the Adlet as well. “Couple of weeks ago I thought they were just an Inuit story, dude.”

The Adlet is still staring at Derek – and then it moves. Derek's fully prepared to fend it off, except it's not coming at him. It's gone straight for Stiles.

Stiles swings his bat, using the Adlet's own momentum against it and knocking it some few meters away. Undeterred, it gets to its feet and snarls, before breaking into a run. Derek intercepts it before it can get to Stiles, snarling and clawing at its chest and hoping to do as much damage as possible. The Adlet tries to retaliate, but it has man hands and they're not very effective against a werewolf.

The fight's over within five minutes. Derek was all for killing it, but Stiles muttered a firm “ _no_ , dude” and knocked it out with a hit to the head. “Yeah, I know it tried to kill us and all,” he says in response to Derek's miffed expression, “but dude, it's not our responsibility. It's Carla's.”

Carla's the Alpha who's put them on this job. Her pack's been an ally of the Hales for ages, and she'd always helped out whenever she could. Granted, that didn't mean that Derek had to drop everything and catch a plane to Alaska just because Carla's pack couldn't deal with an Adlet... and he would have politely declined, if it hadn't been for Stiles's excitement at the prospect of seeing something out of a story.

Really, one would think he'd learned his lesson by now.

(Also, Beacon Hills was getting super boring. Stiles was home for the summer, but they could only have sex so many times before even that got boring.)

Stiles extracts a coil of rope from his backpack and they begin trussing up the Adlet, taking care to ensure it can't get loose. It takes ten minutes, after which Stiles straightens and asks, “So – how do we get it to Carla's?”

“We don't,” grunts Derek, already annoyed with the entire business. Bad enough that he has to fly up just for a confrontation that took barely ten minutes. He doesn't want to have to drag a 300-pound monster through the icy terrain, for the hour it'll take to walk to Carla's.

“We don't?” Stiles asks.

“I'll call Carla, she can send some betas over,” Derek replies, and takes out his cell phone. “It's their issue, they can deal with it.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Good thing you're not the diplomatic one in the pack. I don't want to know what would happen if you'd said that to her face.”

“I don't care,” Derek mutters, and fires off a text to Carla. “Is that thing properly tied?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, tugging on a loose end of rope. “It's not getting loose any time soon.”

“Okay. Let's leave it here. It's easy enough to spot.”

“What if someone else comes across it first?” questions Stiles.

“Carla's pack is the only one in this area,” Derek tells him. “And no human's going to come this way.”

“Just covering all bases,” Stiles says, and then suggests, “Maybe we should hide it anyway. Carla's betas should be able to sniff it out, it stinks like a motherfucker.”

That seems to be a reasonable idea, and so they get to work. It takes them another half an hour, by the end of which Stiles's hands are an angry red and trembling. He hadn't worn gloves because they'd mess with his grip on his bat, and he's paying the price now. Derek's feeling cold too, but it's nowhere near as bad as Stiles.

“Hey,” he says gently, and pulls up the edge of Stiles's scarf to cover his bright red nose and his mouth. “Just another hour, okay? And then we'll be nice and warm at Carla's.”

Stiles nods miserably, too exhausted to even complain about the cold or his balls or anything else. Derek almost wishes he would, if only because this kind of silence from Stiles is abnormal. He makes sure Stiles's thick hood is covering his ears properly, and then takes his hands between his own, trying to rub some warmth into them. Stiles offers him a grateful smile, which he returns.

They set off at a hurried pace, stopping only to consult a compass or Derek's sense of smell. The problem with this particular area in the Alaskan wilderness is that while they don't have to worry about humans or animals bothering them, they do have to worry about being on track. It's just a wide stretch of mindnumbing whiteness, as far as the eye can see, with no landmarks or anything to indicate they're on the right path. It was easy enough finding the Adlet, thanks to the smell, but it's harder to make their way back.

“I think w-we're going too f-far east,” Stiles says after some time, through chattering teeth.

“It doesn't smell wrong or anything,” Derek replies. “We're still going further from the stench, so there's that.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean w-we're going in the right d-direction,” Stiles argues. “Face it, Derek, we're kind of lost.”

“No, come on,” Derek begins, but stops and has a look around. Just a shitton of snow _everywhere_. Literally nothing else. “Okay, yeah,” he admits. “We're lost.”

“T-text Carla,” Stiles says, and takes a step closer to Derek for warmth. “Ask her to send someone.”

It's fucking embarrassing to have to admit to an ally that he's managed to get himself and his mate lost despite possessing superior senses, but Derek does it anyway. The way Stiles is shivering and his skin is turning slightly blue is a very significant factor.

“Fuck,” he curses a second later. “There's no reception.”

“You've g-got to be kidding me,” Stiles responds incredulously.

Derek shakes his head, feeling just as miserable as Stiles all of a sudden.

“All right,” Stiles sighs in frustration. “Ugh. Let's – let's just keep walking t-till we get reception, t-then.”

It seems to be the only course of action that won't end in Stiles being permanently maimed by various appendages shriveling up and falling off, so Derek agrees. He puts his phone back in his pocket and takes the bat from Stiles, putting his free arm around Stiles's shoulders and trying to offer as much warmth as he can.

They keep walking. Stiles doesn't talk at all, and it worries Derek but he doesn't comment. Presently they come to a lake, frozen over and bordered by icy boulders. Stiles looks like he'd love to sit down on one, but there's just the minor problem of, you know, possibly freezing his nether regions off. “Don't worry,” begins Derek, but then stops, sniffing the air.

“What is it?” Stiles asks. The visible portion of his face looks worried.

“Why do I smell an Adlet?” is Derek's response.

“D-do you think it got loose?” Stiles's eyes are wide. It's obvious why he's worried – he's not in much of a state to fend off an angry monster, or help Derek if needed.

“It's not the same one,” Derek tells him. The smell is _disgusting_ , but different enough for him to be able to tell. “Carla didn't say there would be more than one.”

“She probably d-didn't know,” Stiles reasons. Underneath all the odor, Derek can smell a little bit of Stiles's fear as well. It doesn't sit well with him at all – makes his gut wrench and his insides twist, makes him want to kill whatever’s inducing that reaction in Stiles.

_Overprotective_ is a bit of an understatement, really.

The second Adlet lumbers into sight a few seconds later, and this one is even bigger than its buddy. Stiles inhales sharply, and shakily reaches for the bat. Derek lets him have it, focusing instead of shifting and trying to make himself look as big as possible. The bulky layers of clothing help somewhat.

There's a short pause as both parties size each other up. This Adlet isn't interested in any show of dominance or aggression – it just looks unbelievably hungry. It's taller than the previous one, but also skinnier, and it's obvious that it needs to eat.

The only problem is that Adlets are picky eaters – they only go for Creme de la Human. Which, due to Stiles's presence, is very much on the menu today.

Next time there's a hunt involving human-eating things, Derek's going to knock Stiles out and lock him in the Camaro, and just bring Scott along. They can bitch at each other while kicking monster ass. Not ideal, but better than having to try to explain to Stiles why it's not a good idea for him to come along.

Too bad Scott's too busy playing host to a potential ally pack. Derek definitely doesn't miss the diplomatic parts of being an Alpha – he just wishes the timing on Carla's call could have been better.

(“Why can't I take Malia instead of Stiles? I don't want him getting hurt.”

“Because she's still terrified to shit of airplanes. Besides, Stiles can look after himself better than all of us, you know that.”

“What about Liam?”

“He's my beta, I need him around.”

“There's Malia.”

“You're the one who told me they'll want to observe a beta that I turned.”

“...I see your point.”

“So Stiles it is.”

“He better not do anything stupid and noble, I swear to God.”)

The Adlet roars, and Derek has to actually resist the urge to gag. They're half-human, isn't hygiene a thing with them? Then again, their mother fucked a dog and they eat people, so Derek isn't really holding out much hope.

“Dude, that f-fucking stinks,” Stiles remarks, a bit unnecessarily. “Why don't you d-distract it and I'll kn-knock it out?”

“Bad idea,” says Derek automatically.

“Would you r-rather I distracted it?” demands Stiles, and okay, he has a point. Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh, and they get on it.

Except the fucking Adlet has other plans – it fends off each one of Derek's attacks easily, and if it's this good in its weakened, starved state? Derek's _really fucking glad_ they're not facing it when it's healthy. They would be _so fucked_.

Stiles is creeping off behind the Adlet, trying to sneak in and get a good knock on its head. It can't really hurt Derek – this particular combination of human and animal is _terribly_ impractical, nature definitely didn't do this species any favors – but it can definitely keep him on his toes. He blocks a powerful punch and tries to claw at the Adlet's face and neck, but it brings its forearms up in defence. The only thing working to its advantage is its height, a good three feet more than Derek's.

Derek knows all he has to do is get it low enough for Stiles to hit it. He's already keeping the Adlet's attention away from the human – or perhaps it just wants to get rid of Derek before feasting on Stiles. There's no way in hell it doesn't care about Stiles's presence – his very scent must be maddening to it, must probably be driving it rabid with hunger. He lunges and shreds the Adlet's skin on its left flank, eliciting a livid, pained howl. He's expecting it to hunch over, but instead it just twists away and backwards.

Stiles is right behind it.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he hears Stiles breath, and watches as he backs up onto the lake, trying not to get trampled by the agonized Adlet. Derek's taken a good chunk out of its leg, and while that may not be much to a healthy Adlet, to a weak one it must be excruciating. Derek's got no sympathy for it, though – not when it's forcing Stiles onto the ice. He's slipping, trying to keep his balance, and the hyper-agonized Adlet writhing and twisting just nearby isn't helping.

“Stiles, take it out!” Derek yells over its howls.

“I can't, it won't keep still!” Stiles calls back, frantic. He raises his bat, looking desperately for a way to knock it out on the first try. It's already in pain – if he misses and it gets angry he's going to be eaten for sure.

There's a loud _crack_ , and to Derek's horror the ice around the Adlet begins to break. He's still onshore, but Stiles is on the lake and in immediate danger of either being trampled by the crazed creature or falling through the ice. Whichever happens first.

The Adlet doesn't seem to notice, but Stiles has seen the cracks in the ice and he looks up at Derek, eyes wide with fear. There's also determination, however, and when the Adlet hunches over in response to the ice burning against its injury, Stiles takes the hit.

Derek watches in sharp-edged apprehension as the bat comes swinging down on the monster's head. It howls again, and turns to face Stiles, who now looks outright terrified. The cracks in the ice give way and open wide, an entire piece separating and floating away on the freezing water.

The Adlet is on that piece. So is Stiles. All of this happens in the space of a few short seconds.

The creature roars at Stiles and he swings again, missing it entirely. Their little piece of ice is rocking frighteningly in the water, and Derek looks frantically for a way to make it there and help Stiles. He looks at the battle raging on just a few feet yet so far away, and it gives him an idea.

He kicks off his shoes, letting claws pop out on his feet. He doesn't spare a thought to how Kali-esque they are, instead hoping they provide a good grip on the ice. That's how the Adlet's preventing itself from slipping, anyway.

Derek roars to distract it, even as he jumps onto the ice and tries to make his way over to them. It gives Stiles exactly the opportunity he needs, and this time when the bat comes down on the Adlet's head it's with a force so powerful Derek thinks he hears bone break. This is definitely going into his mental index of _Why No One Should Fuck With Stiles Just Because He's Human and Therefore “Weak”_ that he regularly updates after each shitstorm.

The only problem is that as the Adlet goes down, so does Stiles. The force of the creature's heavy body hitting the ice upends it, and Derek moves as fast as he can, trying to catch Stiles before he slips into the ice. It's too late – Stiles is scrambling for purchase and not finding any, and Derek's fingers close over the thin air where Stiles's hood had been not a second ago, a strangled cry of “ _Derek_ –!” still echoing in the frigid Arctic air.

Panic hits Derek with the force of a freight train but he pushes it down, thrusting both his arms into the icy water and grabbing Stiles before he can sink too low. He roars from the needle-sharp cold and from exertion, and thinks about how much more it's going to hurt for Stiles than it does for him.

He's got Stiles out of the water and flat on his back on the ice barely a minute after Stiles went under, but his eyes are closed, skin white and breathing labored. Frantically Derek checks his pulse and his breathing, before ripping his soaking, _freezing_ clothes off with his claws. He needs to get Stiles warm, _now_ , and fuck the Adlet.

He leaves Stiles's pants on (because the other option is leaving his legs exposed and they have only one pair of dry pants between them) and takes off his outer clothing layer by layer, wrapping Stiles in it and making sure it's all dry. Stiles's skin is worryingly blue, but his breathing seems minutely easier. He still hasn't opened his eyes, or made any kind of indication that he's aware of what's happening.

“Stiles,” Derek implores, cradling his face in his hands, claws retracted, “Stiles, can you hear me?”

There's a small whimper after a second, and Stiles forces his eyes open. “C-cold,” he says immediately, his teeth chattering so hard that he's almost incomprehensible. “Hurts.”

Derek notices the blackness in the veins of his hands, and realizes with a pointed stab of panic that Stiles is in pain. Has to be, considering _how fucking cold it is_. He does the only thing that seems to make sense – he wraps both arms around Stiles and lifts him up, cradling him to his chest and hoping to provide as much heat as possible. He's only dressed in his jeans and a shirt, and is beginning to gain a finer appreciation for how cold it must have felt for Stiles even when he was fully wrapped. He's not worried about hypothermia though – he's a werewolf, and his body will heal.

The same cannot be said for Stiles, and time is of the essence. Even wrapped in a ton of clothes and huddling next to Derek's chest, Stiles is shivering violently, tremors coursing throughout his entire body. He hasn't spoken after the initial two words, instead clinging weakly to Derek and burying his cold, cold face in Derek's neck.

“Gotta get you out of here,” Derek mutters, and carefully takes the few steps back to solid land. He spares the lake one last look and finds it empty – the Adlet's fallen into the water. Probably dead by now. Derek can't find himself to care.

“I'm g-going to have to p-put you down,” he tells Stiles regretfully and _perfect_ , his own fucking teeth are chattering now.

Stiles mutters a weak “no” and tries to hang on to Derek with his arms, and it terrifies Derek how weak his grip is, but there's nothing else he can do. He hates himself for it, but he sets Stiles down on the ice and rummages through the layers for his cell phone, hoping hope against hope there's at least one bar of reception.

There are two, to his surprise, and he dials Carla immediately. He doesn't wait for her to speak when she picks up. “Stiles fell through the ice at the lake, and he doesn't look too good. We need you – _hurry_.” He hangs up without bothering to wait for an answer; he knows she'll be there.

Stiles's eyes are screwed shut, and his skin, while not blue anymore, is still too pale for Derek's liking. He hefts Stiles into his arms again, holds him as close as possible, and whispers, “Carla's on her w-way. We'll be f-fine. You'll be okay.”

Stiles doesn't reply. Derek sits down in the ice, ignoring how it feels like it's burning his skin through his jeans. He'll heal. Stiles can't. He wraps himself more securely around the human, making sure as little as possible is exposed to the elements. His hands are still black-veined, and summons all of his available energy to rid Stiles of the pain. He brushes Stiles's wet hair off his forehead, and puts his own hat on Stiles's head before covering it with the hood from his thick jacket.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“B-better,” Stiles whispers hoarsely into his neck. “F-feels like – like sh-shit, b-but better n-now.” He burrows even closer to Derek, to the source of warmth.

“C-Carla'll be here soon,” Derek says, and it feels like he's trying to assure himself as much as Stiles. It makes him feel a little bit better to see that Stiles's pain's a lot less now, though he still looks the same.

“Y-you okay?” Stiles asks, and Derek laughs hoarsely. Of course the idiot's going to worry about himself last, even when he's in severe danger of freezing to death.

“I'm f-fine,” Derek tells him, tightening his hold a little. “D-don't worry about me.” Stiles's nose is still uncomfortably cold against his skin, and his hands buried in Derek's shirt look and feel like they're made of marble. He really needs to sort out his priorities.

Just then a howl rings out through the Arctic air, and Derek responds in kind, throwing his head back and howling until his throat hurts, hoping it helps Carla's betas find them sooner. Stiles jumps at the sudden, loud noise, but then presses his face even further into Derek's neck and doesn't move. Derek hears a small, ragged sigh of relief.

A hooded, wrapped up face pops up in his line of vision. Derek recognizes it as Leon, one of Carla's betas. “Hey,” he calls, voice scratchy from the cold, “hey, help me out here.”

Leon runs over, followed by his little brother Raymond and his sister Maria. Before Derek can ask, Leon picks Stiles up and begins to run back, calling out, “Follow me!”

“How long'll it t-take?” Derek asks Raymond as they begin to follow. Movement is painful and it feels like his joints are frozen into place, protesting violently as Derek forces them to move. It feels like it'll be such a good idea to just sit and rest for a while, maybe close his eyes...

“Focus!” shouts Maria, and he snaps out of it.

“There's a car waiting just a few minutes away!” Raymond calls out to him as they run. “It'll get us back a lot faster!”

It's a bright red Jeep, a newer model. Derek's throat constricts a little as he sees it, and he almost cries in relief. Leon's already got Stiles settled in the back and is getting into the front, Raymond to his side and Maria getting in the back. Derek climbs up, the sudden warmth of the Jeep's body burning against his frigid skin. He scoots up right next to Stiles, wrapping his arms around him.

The car's off, and Leon's got the heating as high as it'll go. “How'd it happen?” he asks a minute later. Derek's too exhausted to reply, but he makes an effort anyway, tiredly clinging to Stiles.

“Second Adlet. Got the drop on Stiles.”

As if on cue, Stiles moans, opening his eyes. “H-holy shit,” he croaks, trying to meld himself to Derek's side, “it's fucking _freezing_.”

“Take off the layers and get closer,” instructs Maria. “The shared body heat should help.”

Derek helps Stiles strip off his layers, gently guiding his arms and legs out of his clothes. It worries him how Stiles seems to still be in pain, going by the bursts of black shooting up his veins, but he files it away to deal with after this. His own shirt is still wet from the cold, and without hesitation or an ounce of self-consciousness he takes it off, throwing it into the back of the Jeep with the rest of the clothes. He wraps his arms back around Stiles and buries his nose in his hair, which has already begun to dry.

Stiles practically _melts_ into his arms, a small sigh escaping his lips as he snuggles as close as possible. “That feels s-so much better,” he says, and smiles at Derek.

“You're an idiot,” is Derek's reply, but he smiles too. Stiles is _safe_ , he's going to okay. It drowns out any other sensation or feeling.

“Almost there,” Raymond says ten minutes later, and Derek looks outside. They're back in town without him having noticed. He looks back to Stiles, running a mental do-over. The blood's returning to the his skin, leaving it flushed and pink all over. He's still wrapped around Derek, and his hair's almost completely dry now. His pain has lessened considerably. Derek himself feels a lot better, but that's just his werewolf healing. It'll still be some time before Stiles is completely okay.

* * *

 

Carla, mercifully, decides to interrogate them later (as if Derek would have agreed to answering her questions anyway; Stiles comes first) and puts them in her guest bedroom, the heating on high as they huddle together under a fuckton of comforters. She makes them soup, gets her betas to lend them some clothes, and checks them over for injuries before letting them go to bed. Derek's 100% okay now, and Stiles is on his way. At least he's talking again, though his voice is still hoarse.

“Never do that again,” Derek mumbles into his hair. “You could have _died_.”

“But I didn't,” Stiles responds, his lips moving against Derek's skin. They're not icy anymore but they're still too cool for Derek's liking.

There's a silence, and then Stiles asks, “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Derek replies. “Can't say the same for the Adlet, though. It drowned.”

Stiles considers that for a second, and then, evidently deciding he doesn't care, says, “I still feel like I'm freezing, you know? Like I'll never be warm again. It's still a lot better than before, though. Back then it just felt like someone was stabbing me over and over again, on every inch of my skin. It hurt like a motherfucker, and at least that's over.”

“It's not going to last,” Derek tells him. “You'll be fine once your body's back to its normal temperature.”

“I know,” Stiles answers. Then he grins and says, “So – you got to be Jacob Black anyway.”

“Are you insinuating that you're Bella?” Derek teases, grinning despite himself.

“Fuck off,” mutters Stiles, grin wearing off. “You're an asshole.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't mean you're not an asshole.”

There's another silence, and this one stretches on for longer. Just when Derek thinks Stiles has fallen asleep, though, he speaks. “Horrible weather, even worse tourist attractions. We're never coming back here.”

Derek laughs, loud and sincere. “Shit yeah,” he agrees fervently. “Next time we're going to Florida.”

“Or Hawaii. Let's go to Hawaii.” Stiles yawns widely.

“Okay,” Derek replies. “We'll go wherever you want to, after you're better.”

“Right now I just want to sleep for a month,” Stiles replies, closing his eyes. “We can book a flight later.”

Derek smiles, going along with it, and kisses the top of Stiles's head.

He mentally goes over the events of the day, which doesn't do much except strengthen his resolve never to set foot in Alaska again. Oh, and the entire knocking Stiles out and locking him in the Camaro thing too. He's totally gonna do it.

(He knows he's not. Stiles would _murder_ him. Kill him to death. And besides, over fifty percent of their cases only go well because Stiles is a fucking genius and comes up with something lifesaving at the last minute. They'd be totally screwed without him.)

Something clicks in his memory and he says, “Cora.”

“What?” mumbles Stiles sleepily.

“Cora,” Derek repeats. “She was the one who made me watch Twilight. For shits and giggles, she said. It was horrible.”

“Hell yeah,” says Stiles with a drowsy chuckle. “Such complete bullshit like what even...” His voice trails off, and Derek looks down to find him fast asleep, having drifted off midsentence.

Stiles isn't Bella. Stiles is fierce and independent and smart and loyal and so, so beautiful that even after years it never ceases to amaze Derek. He doesn't give a shit if he has to spend all of Stiles's recuperation period shirtless and functioning as a living, breathing heater. He'll do it, and not care what anyone thinks, because Stiles is the only thing that matters, and for him Derek would gladly deal with a thousand Adlets in the middle of the Arctic Ocean if he has to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Adlets are an Inuit story. They're half-human, half-dog (upper half is human, lower's dog) because their mom refused to marry a human like a normal person and went and fucked a dog instead. [I shit you not](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adlet).
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome <33  
> [tumblr.](http://chester--bennington.tumblr.com/)


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek’s first indicator that something isn’t right is the sudden scent on the air. It’s Stiles, mixed with terror and guilt, and immediately Derek’s on his feet, striding towards his apartment door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooooooooooo next up is Derek's chapter - tomorrow :D *prepares confetti and cake*  
> Thanks to everyone who's given kudos and reviews <3 the response to this is so much better than what I'd hoped, and seriously, I love you all. This fic's special for me not only because it's for someone I care about a lot, but also because I've been working on this for a month, writing and rewriting and revising. So thank you all [hugs everybody]

Derek’s first indicator that something isn’t right is the sudden scent on the air. It’s Stiles, mixed with terror and guilt, and immediately Derek’s on his feet, striding towards his apartment door. The smell gets stronger the closer Stiles gets, and in a second Derek can hear his heart as well, beating so fast it might as well burst out of his chest.

He opens the door, and Stiles barrels right in. “Stiles, what-” he begins, shutting the door, but Stiles has his hands fisted in his hair, pacing up and down and almost ripping his hair out of his skull. His skin is white, and his entire body seems to be shaking.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Derek asks at once, his instincts going on high alert. Stiles looks like he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

“I fucked up, oh my God,” Stiles replies frantically, wearing out Derek’s rug with his pacing. He gets his hands out of his hair and on his face, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. His breathing and heart rate pick up even more, until he’s hyperventilating.

Derek strides up to him and forces him to stop his pacing, pushing him on the couch. “Stiles, stop,” he barks, taking Stiles’s face in his hands. Stiles grabs both his wrists and holds on so tightly that if Derek wasn’t a werewolf he would have bruised. His breathing is getting faster and faster by the second, and so’s his heartbeat.

“Derek, I fucked up,” Stiles pants, his grip getting tighter, almost cutting off circulation to Derek’s hands. He’s practically gasping for breath at this point, his face white and his entire body shaking. It’s definitely a panic attack, and uneasily Derek wonders what’s happened that’s got him reacting like this.

He takes his hand off Stiles’s face and puts it on his chest, right over his heart. “Breathe, Stiles,” he instructs. “Come on, breathe with me.” He inhales deeply, waits for Stiles to do the same before exhaling slowly. “Come on - in, out, in out. That’s it.”

Stiles follows his lead, his hands loosening a little around Derek’s wrists. Derek doesn’t let himself wince at the sensation of blood flowing back to his hands; instead he continues breathing in and out slowly, ensuring Stiles does the same. Slowly, surely, Stiles’s heart rate goes down and his breathing gets easier.

“What do you need?” Derek asks softly, not taking his hand off Stiles’s chest. “Tell me what you need.”

“Just - just stay with me,” Stiles replies, voice shaking. His tremors have decreased significantly, but he’s still shaky and his skin feels clammy. “Please,” he adds, his voice breaking on the word.

“Anything,” Derek promises, and brushes Stiles’s hair off his forehead. He’s sweating profusely, his hair soaked and clothes damp.

“Talk to me,” Stiles requests a second later, looking up imploringly at Derek. The desperation and terror in his eyes goes straight to Derek’s heart. “Talk to me, Derek, just tell me _anything_.”

“Okay,” agrees Derek. “Liam was over today. He had a History paper and he needed help. Topic was Franklin Roosevelt’s policies during World War 2. Remember that time you wrote a paper on the history of the male circumcision? I told Liam about that and he damn near laughed his head off. I helped him out a bit and he left some time ago. Oh, and did you know Mason’s got a boyfriend now? He’s from out of town, comes down to see Mason every weekend. Nice kid. I ran a background check and everything, just in case.”

“I killed a man,” says Stiles abruptly, and Derek stops.

“What?”

“I killed a man,” Stiles repeats quietly, and lists forward until he’s leaning against Derek, head on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to but I had no choice.”

“What happened?” asks Derek, wrapping an arm around Stiles. He knows Stiles would never hurt anyone unless it was absolutely necessary, and this must have been something serious. He surreptitiously checks Stiles over for injuries.

“I’m fine,” Stiles tells him dully, correctly interpreting his once-over. “I’m not hurt. Just a few bruises, maybe? I’ve had worse.”

“Okay,” says Derek. “I’m glad to hear that.” He doesn’t say anything more, just softly rubs circles into Stiles’s shoulder and waits for him to talk.

He does, eventually, his voice scratchy and detached, like he’s talking about a stranger and not himself. “I was out doing the groceries, putting the bags from the cart into the trunk of my car. This dude comes up to me with a huge knife, asks for my money. He was human. I tried to get him to back off, I told him I could help him, he didn’t have - didn’t have to do this, you know.” He stops, closes his eyes, breathes in and out a few times. He opens his eyes again, and they look haunted. “He wouldn’t listen, Derek. I tried, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice coming out just barely above a whisper, “Stiles, _what happened_?”

“He didn’t listen,” Stiles repeats, and closes his eyes again, leaning further into Derek. “He tried to go at me, and I defended myself, I didn’t attack him, I swear!”

“I believe you,” Derek says, alarmed by the way Stiles’s voice goes higher at the end, almost like he thinks Derek’s not going to buy it. His heartbeat picks up again. “Stiles, I believe you,” Derek repeats, placing his free hand on Stiles’s chest again. “It’s okay, Stiles.”

“No it’s not!” Stiles cries out. “It’s not, Derek! I tried to stop him, I just wanted to defend myself but I think I must have miscalculated or something, because next thing I know he’s on the ground, bleeding and Derek, I killed him!” The last three words come out as a sob and Derek wraps both arms around Stiles, holding him close.

“Hey, shh,” he soothes, rubbing circles into his back. “It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay. He would’ve hurt you.”

“He didn’t have to die,” Stiles sobs into Derek’s shirt. “I just deflected his blow, I swear I had no idea it’d hit him! I don’t - I don’t even know how it happened, his hand kind of slipped and he dropped the knife, and - and I don’t know, he panicked or something, he tried to run and he fell, and he must’ve landed on the knife, and like, how does that even work?” He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, one hand curled in Derek’s shirt for comfort.

“It was an accident,” Derek says quietly. “Stiles, you couldn’t have done anything.”

Stiles continues like he hasn’t heard. “Anyway, I kind of yelled for help and the grocery store clerk came running over. She called the police, and my dad came and I told him and he let me go after they took a statement. I came here right after. My dad dropped me off, he didn’t want me to be alone. _I_ didn’t want to be alone.” He exhales, the puff of breath warming Derek’s skin over his neck and collarbones.

“Did you find out who he was?” Derek asks.

“No,” Stiles answers. “They’re probably gonna identify him at the morgue. I - shit! I can’t stop thinking about him, Derek! He probably had a family, friends, maybe he was dating someone… and it’s all over now. He’s _gone_ , just like that!”

“Stiles,” Derek says softly, making sure Stiles is looking at him before going on, “Stiles, listen to me. It wasn’t your fault, okay? You didn’t even attack him. It was an accident. Not your fault.”

“Derek, I-”

“Stiles, please,” Derek interrupts. He takes Stiles’s face in his hands. “You need to believe me. _It was not your fault_.”

A tear leaks out of Stiles’s right eye and falls onto Derek’s thumb. “Derek, I should have been more careful, I should have tried harder to make him listen, I -”

“You were defending yourself from a desperate person with a knife,” Derek corrects him. “And it’s not your fault that he didn’t listen. Please don’t blame yourself.” He sighs. “I know what it’s like to live with guilt. We both do. Trust me, we really don’t need to blame ourselves for things out of our control.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, evidently thinking about Derek’s words. Then he sighs too. “You’re right,” he admits, moving forward and resting his head against Derek’s shoulder again. “It’s just that… I’ve already hurt so many people. Killed so many. I just… don’t want more blood on my hands.”

“That wasn’t you,” Derek says fiercely, feeling a little sick. He knows Stiles will never stop blaming himself for what the nogitsune did, just like Derek will never stop blaming himself for the fire. It doesn’t mean he can’t try to convince Stiles otherwise, though. “Stiles, it wasn’t you. You know that. You can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t stop.”

Stiles barks out a short, mirthless laugh. “I should have been stronger.”

“You were the strongest you could be,” Derek informs him. “Stiles, look at me - please. Don’t do this to yourself.” Stiles is his own personal ray of sunshine, the one who laughs and jokes when the world is going to hell. If that light within Stiles goes out Derek thinks he’ll be extinguished too, right along with him.

He’s not going to be able to live if Stiles won’t, that much is certain.

Stiles doesn’t reply. He just adjusts himself so he’s comfortable, and takes Derek’s hand. Derek’s not sure how long they sit like that, just that Stiles isn’t making a sound or moving a muscle and _it’s not natural_ and it’s late, so late, it must be 1 PM and when was the last time Stiles slept, when was the last time he _ate_?

Stiles isn’t sweating anymore, though, and his skin’s regained some color. His heartbeat is only slightly elevated, his breathing slow and calculated. At least the worst of it is over. Derek presses his lips to the side of Stiles’s head, but doesn’t say a word.

Presently Stiles begins playing with the hem of his shirt, and that’s how Derek knows he’s broken out of his funk and is thinking long and hard about something. He sits absolutely still, not wanting to break Stiles out of his thoughts. Stiles is frowning a little and biting his bottom lip, and Derek wants to kiss the lines off his face and whisper into his skin over and over again until Stiles believes him, believes how amazing and brave and strong he is. But he can’t, at least not right now, and so he settles for playing with Stiles’s hair, knowing it soothes him.

Eventually Stiles talks. “I hate not being in control,” he says, his voice firmer than before. He releases his shirt and looks Derek in the eye. “I hate being helpless. I hate it _so much_. If there’s anything I could do to go back and stop it all, I would. In the blink of an eye. But-” he takes a deep breath, looks like he’s steeling himself for what he’ll say next. “I can’t keep living like that. I can’t… can’t keep thinking about all those people, the lives they could have had, the people they left behind. I’m not… I’m not going to.”

Derek knows he can’t ask Stiles to let it go - they can’t. There’s no such thing as letting go, not with all they’ve seen and done. So he just leans forward, kisses Stiles gently, and says, “Do whatever you need. I’ll be right here where you want me.”

“Thank you,” Stiles murmurs. “I know I don’t - I don’t say it enough, but. Thank you.”

“You don’t _need_ to say it,” Derek assures him. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He drags Stiles closer, buries his fingers in his hair. “It’s okay,” he repeats, until Stiles goes boneless against him, clutching on to his shirt for dear life. He doesn’t make a sound, but then again he doesn’t need to. The tears soaking through Derek’s shirt at his shoulder tell him all he needs to know.

“It’s okay,” he says, over and over again, interjects the words with soft kisses and light brushes of skin on skin, like he can sear the words into Stiles’s body if he says them enough, as if he could drill into Stiles’s brain and replace every dark thought with sunshine and love and hope.

He does it for how long he has no idea. Time’s meaningless - all that exists right now is Stiles in his arms, and the two words he won’t stop saying. He’s not going to stop, not until Stiles believes it.

He hears Stiles’s heartrate go down and his breathing become slower, deeper, and understands that he’s falling asleep. Nevertheless he does not cease his repetitious assurance, keeps right on saying it until Stiles is fast asleep on his shoulder, his fingers still tangled in his shirt. He whispers it into the night, until sleep claims him as well.

* * *

He wakes to find sunlight illuminating his apartment and his arms empty. He can hear Stiles moving about in the kitchen, and his stomach rumbles happily at the scent of coffee that’s wafting out. He gets to his feet and walks to the kitchen, encircling Stiles's waist with his arms from behind and putting his chin on Stiles’s shoulder. “Hey,” he greets.

“Hey,” Stiles answers, and tilts his head back to kiss him. “What do you want for breakfast?” He’s freshly showered, no longer smells like tears and blood. Derek’s glad.

“Anything,” he answers. “How’re you feeling?”

Stiles considers this, and then replies, “Okay. Better than last night.”

“Good. That's good,” Derek replies honestly, and lets go. “I'm gonna go shower now. D'you want to go anywhere? After breakfast?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don't know.” He goes back to frying eggs and toasting bread. Derek presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and heads towards the bathroom. 

* * *

They don't go anywhere – they stay in and watch stupid movies and sit in comfortable silence, their hands always touching. It feels nice and lazy, but Derek knows it's only a front. Stiles is still perturbed by the events of the previous night, still blames himself even though he's honestly trying not to. And all Derek can do is think of how many times he's repeated “It's okay,” to the point where the words have stopped making sense.

Stiles gets up for a bathroom break halfway through _10 Things I Hate About You_ , and Derek waits till he hears the lock click before heading into the kitchen and grabbing the pad of Post-It notes from the counter. He scrawls with a Sharpie across a bunch of them and puts them up all over the apartment, as fast as possible.

By the time Stiles returns, he's back in his seat, innocently fiddling with the remote like he's been there all along. 

* * *

Stiles discovers the first note when he goes into the kitchen for a drink. He returns with it clutched in his hand, a quizzical expression on his face. “Did you put this on the counter?” he asks Derek, holding it up.

Derek glances at the “It's okay” scribbled on it in green Sharpie, and nods.

Stiles frowns down at it, then folds it and puts it into his pocket, before taking his place next to Derek. They don't mention it after that, but Stiles kisses Derek's cheek and whispers “I love you” before resuming the movie.

* * *

Derek can tell when Stiles finds the rest of the notes, by checking where he's put them and whether they're still there. He's written the same two words on all of them, as if hoping that if Stiles is exposed to the words enough he'll begin to believe them. He checks the trash too, and finds nothing – Stiles is keeping the notes, it would seem.

He runs out of Post-It notes three days later, having exhausted his supply by plastering them all over Stiles's room and his Jeep. Stiles doesn't say anything, but Derek notes how he seems a little bit more at ease with himself now. At least it's having _some_ effect.

So he makes the trip to the stationery after his shift and buys a bunch of notes, and starts the entire cycle anew. Stiles still doesn't mention them at all, but his thanks is clear in the small touches and soft, grateful smiles, in the way he randomly intertwines their fingers together and kisses Derek. It's more than Derek could hope for.

* * *

Derek finds out from work that the guy's name had been Donald, and he'd been from a town a few miles ahead of Beacon Hills. He was in his early thirties, unmarried and childless, broke and desperate. His only family was a brother who was in jail, and there were no friends that could be tracked down. He'd lost his job and had been unable to find anything else, living off food stamps and homeless shelters for months until he couldn't take it anymore.

Stiles cries the entire day, sometimes sobbing but mostly just sniffling quietly to himself, his nose pink and eyes rimmed with red. All Derek can do is hold him and say “It's okay”, like it's a mantra that can fix anything, like just those two stupid words will console Stiles and take away the horror of Donald's death.

He doesn't want to leave Stiles on his own in this state and so he brings him along to the station, settles him in his office and drapes his jacket around his shoulders. Parrish comes in to offer some quiet words of consolation, which Stiles accepts with a nod and a half-hearted smile. The Sheriff kisses his son's forehead and hugs him tightly, and says fiercely, “Don't you _dare_ blame yourself, you hear me, son? Don't you _dare_.” To Stiles's credit, he doesn't cry, just clings to his dad and doesn't let go until he absolutely has to.

“There's no one to claim the body,” Parrish murmurs to Derek, out of earshot of Stiles (who's dully playing solitaire on his dad's computer).

“So we bury him here, in Beacon Hills?” asks Derek, glancing towards the Sheriff's office to make sure Stiles is okay.

“I guess so,” replies Parrish, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Are you sure Stiles...?” he trails off.

“Stiles will be fine,” Derek says, more confidently than he feels. “He's getting better about the entire thing day by day.”

“That's good to hear,” Parrish says with a nod. “He has a way of being too hard on himself, you know?”

“All too well,” Derek sighs. “It's one thing to know when you've fucked up, but it's entirely another to blame yourself for something totally out of control. For all his smarts, he can't really distinguish between the two.”

“And you can?” questions Parrish, giving Derek a knowing look.

“I try,” Derek admits. After a pause, he adds quietly, “ _He_ makes me want to try.”

The corner of Parrish's mouth quirks into a smile. “Aww, that's so romantic,” he teases, and Derek rolls his eyes. Parrish is just trying to lighten the moment, though, so there's no real venom in the deed.

He's about to retort when Stiles exits his dad's office, walking up to the two of them. “Hey,” he says hesitantly. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” says Parrish warmly. “You're welcome to join us.”

Stiles offers him a grateful smile, and pulls up a chair next to Derek. “When's the funeral?” he asks, endeavoring to keep his voice toneless.

“You heard us talk,” states Parrish. It's not a question.

Stiles nods. “For cops, you two are kinda shit at subtlety.” He grins at them, and even though it doesn't really reach his eyes it makes Derek happy. It's something. It's a start to Stiles returning to his usual self.

“That's the kind of comment that hurts feelings,” Parrish says with a mock grimace.

“What? It's true,” shrugs Stiles.

“Funeral's tomorrow at noon,” Derek says quietly. “Stiles, are you sure you'll be fine?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers firmly. “I'll – I'll be okay. Who's attending?”

“No one,” says Parrish, and this time his grimace is real.

“I'll go,” decides Stiles. Derek and Parrish both turn to stare at him. “What?” he asks, a little defensively. “He deserves at least that much.”

Parrish nods and looks away, and Derek takes Stiles's hand. None of them speak until the Sheriff returns from his coffee run. 

* * *

After the funeral they go on a drive. Stiles gets into Derek's Camaro and they're off, heading out of town. Derek's requested a change of shifts, and Stiles is on summer break and has nothing else to do anyway.

The only sounds in the car are the muted hum of the engine and the soft beat of whatever’s on the radio. Stiles is looking pensively out the window, fingers tangled in his lap. Derek glances at him every now and then, and asks “Okay?”

Every time Stiles replies with a thoughtful “Yeah”, and continues his staring.

Derek speaks again a few miles out of Beacon Hills. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just wondering about Donald,” Stiles answers honestly. He offers Derek a small smile. “And wondering if there's a 'better place' that people keep talking about, and if Donald's there now.”

Derek turns the idea over in his head. “I don't know if there's an afterlife,” he finally says. “I used to think about it a lot, after my family.” His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. “It wasn't anything solid but it felt... well, not better, but a bit comforting. To think that they still existed somewhere.”

“I used to think the same, after my mom died,” Stiles confesses. “I never mentioned it to my dad, but I used to wonder if there was a heaven. For a long time I was so sure that if there was one, my mom would be in it. How could she not?” He smiles wistfully. “I miss her so much. I wish she'd never left. She'd have liked you, you know?”

Derek's throat constricts. “Really?” he asks, swallowing.

Stiles nods. “Really,” he confirms. “She would have loved you.”

“Thank you,” Derek says sincerely. He reaches over and takes Stiles's hand. “It means a lot.”

There's a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, and then Stiles asks, “What was it like? When you died?”

“I don't know,” Derek answers truthfully. “It just felt really crappy, because it hurt and I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I was going to die, you know? And I was worried about Scott and Kira.” He looks earnestly at Stiles. “And I was scared that I would never see you again. And I regretted that we could have been so much, but now I would never find out because I never told you how I felt.”

Stiles swallows. “I felt like my world was crashing down,” he says, voice low. “All I could think was 'oh my God, I never told him and now he's _dying_ ', and I hated myself because my best friend was in danger and you were dying and I felt so fucking useless. Like all I was ever good for was losing the people I cared about.”

“No, Stiles, that's not true,” Derek tells him. “And look, I'm okay, aren't I? And so's Scott. So's Kira. We're all okay.”

Stiles smiles slightly at him. “Yeah, I know. I don't feel that way anymore.”

“Good,” says Derek vehemently. “Because I'm running out of Post-Its again.”

A short laugh escapes Stiles. “Thanks, by the way, for that,” he says. “It helped. A lot.”

“Don't thank me,” Derek replies. “You would have done the same. You'd have said it so many times I'd be tempted to duct tape your mouth shut, but you would still find a way to pester me until I began to believe it.”

“So that's what you were doing?” Stiles inquires, sounding amused. “Pulling a Stiles on me?”

Derek nods, and grins. “Yep. Did it work?”

“It worked,” Stiles confirms, and squeezes Derek's fingers. He shifts a little in his seat and asks, changing the subject, “So, where are we headed?”

“I don't know,” Derek tells him, grinning wider. “Just thought we'd drive around aimlessly for a while.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stiles says, and puts his socked feet up on the dash.

“Don't do that,” Derek tells him, even though he knows it's a lost cause. “Why are you not wearing shoes?”

“It's more comfortable this way,” Stiles tells him. “And besides, my feet aren't hurting your precious car. Don't be such a sourwolf.”

Derek smiles at the old nickname. “Fine,” he allows, “but if there's even a single mark on it-”

“You'll kill me, I know,” Stiles says, and smiles his first real smile in days. It sends a bolt of happiness through Derek, makes him feel joyful and warm all over. He can't help it; he smiles back, feels like he's looking at the sun when Stiles's smile widens.

They drive on, bantering and bickering and talking about anything and everything. It's the happiest Derek's felt in days.

Stiles will be okay. They'll be okay.

It's okay. It's all okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Parrish being friends is something I really _really_ want and don't know if I'll ever get soo. That's what fanfic's for, right?
> 
> Feeeedbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack yoooooooooooooo
> 
> [my tumblr.](http://chester--bennington.tumblr.com)   
> [aelya's tumblr.](http://afallengrace.tumblr.com)


	6. +1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been years, but some things will never change. Derek gets quieter and broodier the closer it gets to the anniversary of the Hale fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Final chapter. Whoo, it's been a fun ride.
> 
> I know I've already done this, but here's to Aelya. Here's to a thousand years of friendship, of midnight texts and crazy flailing, of talking and listening, of laughing and sobbing ~~over tv shows~~ and of everything that make up the little moments of any great friendship. It doesn't matter that you're a thousand miles away, or that I've never met you. You're still one of the most beautiful people in my life and I am so, so glad that I responded to your email a hundred years ago, when we still naive, idealistic idiots and the world was ours.  
>  You are the Jensen to my Jared, and I wouldn't change it for the world.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~there is no sappiness going on, how _dare_ you accuse me of such a thing. I am merely expressing my emotions.~~

It's been years, but some things will never change. Derek gets quieter and broodier the closer it gets to the anniversary of the Hale fire. Stiles tries his best to keep his mind off things, but there's only so much he can do, what with assignments and papers and quizzes to worry about. Still, he tries – he calls Derek whenever he can, and requests his dad to keep Derek as busy as possible so he won't have time to think about the fire.

He knows, though, that this plan of action can't be expected to be 100% successful – which is why he's got something else in mind.

He's always wondered why all Derek has of his family is an old vault and a burnt shell of a house. Surely there's something that didn't perish in the fire (and is not a psychotic uncle or a dead sister)? He's wondered, yes, but never asked. It just never seemed right.

He finishes typing up his essay and submits it via email, before shutting off his laptop. He looks around his room and sighs. He better start packing now, if he's planning on getting to Seattle by tomorrow at the most.

He throws some clothes and his toiletries into a backpack, as well as some food and a big flask of water. He also packs wolfsbane, mistletoe and other assorted substances, just in case he needs them. Finally, he picks up his bat, locks up his tiny apartment and gets into his Jeep.

He's a man on a mission, and nothing's going to stop him.

Derek calls him, half an hour after he's set out from Stanford. “When are you coming back?” he asks. “I miss you.”

“Soon,” Stiles promises. “You know how it is, Der-Der – it's my final year, they've got me working my ass off.” He thanks whoever's listening that Derek can't catch his lie over the phone.

“How soon is soon?” insists Derek.

“Soon,” Stiles repeats mischievously. “And in a few more months, I'll be home for good.”

“Can't wait,” Derek says fervently. “I hate that you're away.”

“All in the name of education, Der-bear,” Stiles says, grinning. He's counting down the seconds till Derek protests to his nicknames. “I'm thinking of setting up a business once I get back. Me and you can run it together. We'll call it 'Hale and Stilinski's Consultation Firm for Supernatural Shitstorms.'”

“Ah yes, no one's going to be curious about that,” snarks Derek.

“Lydia could be our lawyer,” Stiles says, acting like Derek hasn't spoken. That's the major she'd finally decided on, and predictably she aced every class. She's graduating from Harvard Law this year.

“She'll demand payment in Prada bags and Michael Kors shoes,” Derek says, evidently deciding to give up and play along. “Are you sure you can afford that?”

“Yeah, why not?” Stiles says nonchalantly. “I'll just have to sell our house and furniture for one month's pay for Lydia but you know. No big deal.”

Derek laughs, and Stiles silently congratulates himself on this small victory. Getting Derek to even smile at this time of year is usually a Herculean task.

“Cora called,” Derek says a second later. “She says she's going to visit soon.”

“That's great!” Stiles exclaims, and he means it. It'll be fun to have her around. She's visited a couple times before, and warmed up considerably towards Stiles, to the point where they occasionally team up and prank Derek (much to his irritation). Besides, having her there might help Derek feel a little less crappy.

“Yeah,” Derek says, sounding a bit cheered at the prospect. “I told her she's welcome to stay with us. She says she's excited to see the new house.” He’s just purchased it, with some contribution from Stiles, and Stiles is actually proud of how they've managed to furnish and decorate it completely in a week.

“When's she going to be here?” Stiles asks.

“In a week or so, she said,” Derek tells him. “Think you can make it back by then?”

“No, sorry,” Stiles says, and he means it. “Another two weeks, Derek.”

“Oh.” Derek sounds morose again. “Okay, then. I'll see you then.”

“I miss you,” Stiles tells him, suddenly feeling homesick.

“Yeah, me too,” Derek replies. “I keep telling myself it's just a few more months though.”

“Same, big guy. It'll be so awesome when I won't have to leave every September.”

“Your dad misses you so much, you know,” Derek informs him. “He's taken to munching on cucumbers every time he thinks of you. It's doing wonders for his health.”

Stiles chuckles. “Good ol' Daddy,” he says wistfully. “Say hi to him from me, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” Derek promises. “Take care, Stiles.”

“You too, Der-bear. Love you.”

“Love you too. Never call me that.”

Stiles laughs again, and hangs up.

He stops for gas in a small, nondescript town an hour or so later, and consults his phone. He should be in Seattle in another eighteen hours, counting for a rest stop for the night. It's 4 PM now – if he drives till midnight and sleeps for five hours, he should be at his destination by 10 AM the next day. Which is actually awesome, all things considered. Much quicker than he'd expected.

He buys a packet of chips, some sandwiches and a few bottles of Gatorade, pays and drives on. There's some soft rock on the radio and he quietly hums along to that, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

He misses Derek. He's lied about his semester not being over and he hates that he has to wait another two weeks before he can go home, but he's on a mission. This is necessary.

* * *

He checks into a no-name motel at ten past midnight, exhausted and sleepy. He takes a warm shower and changes into his shorts and a t-shirt, and eats a couple of sandwiches. Just before he goes to bed he consults his notes one last time, and ensures he's got the right address. He's just about to flip his notebook shut when he notices something.

He's doodled a small triskelion in a corner, an exact replica of Derek's tattoo. He stares at it for like half a minute, before biting his lip and going deep in thought.

Derek's tattoo. Alpha, Beta, Omega. It's just a control mantra, only it's not. It's so much more, because to Derek it means _family_ and safety and comfort. There is no other reason for why he'd have a simple symbolic mantra tattooed on his back. It means something to him, and therefore it means something to Stiles.

He looks down at it one more time before scribbling down a note under it, and then he shuts his notebook and closes his eyes. Sleep comes soon, mainly due to how tired he is.

* * *

Michael seats him in the living-room on a nice squishy beige couch and offers a hospitable smile, taking a seat across. “Anything I can get you? Coffee, tea, soda...?”

“Nah, I'm good, thanks,” Stiles says, hiding his nerves under a layer of false confidence. It's not like he hasn't ever met with ally packs on his lonesome; it's just that today he's here for a completely different purpose, and he's not sure how to go about it in a way that'll get him results.

“So, how've you been?” Michael asks. “And how's your pack?”

“I've been well,” Stiles replies with a small smile. “Just the usual, you know – we dealt with a possessed doll a couple months ago.” He waves an arm nonchalantly. “Like, you know. Nothing new.”

Michael grins at him. “Well, _we_ dealt with zombies.”

Stiles's eyes go wide, and he leans forward on the couch. “Dude, _really_?” he asks, excited. “Zombies are a _thing_?”

“Kinda,” laughs the Alpha. He's young, pleasant, with dark hair and eyes and tanned skin. His pack is one of the few that Stiles truly enjoys hanging out with. “Well, it was more of a reanimated corpse, really.”

“Either way!” Stiles exclaims. “Dude, that's just awesome.”

“Brad's the one who killed it,” Michael tells him. “He got annoyed.”

Stiles snorts. “Bet it insulted his hair.”

“Nahh, it couldn't talk. It just kept trying to eat us, is all.” He smiles at Stiles. “So, how's Derek? You two still together?”

“Yeah, don't go getting any ideas,” Stiles says, grinning. It's an inside joke – Michael's engaged to his own boyfriend of nine years, but they tease each other every now and then. “And well.” Stiles sighs, the smile melting off his face. “Derek's what I came to talk to you about, actually.”

Michael frowns. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he's fine. Well, as fine as he can be, considering how close it is to the anniversary of the fire.”

“Aw, yeah,” Michael says sympathetically. “Still, he's got you, hasn't he?”

“Yeah but dude, it's just not fair,” Stiles says seriously. “He doesn't even have anything to remember them by, unless you count a burnt house and a crazy uncle. And I _don't_ count those.”

Michael leans forward, placing his elbows on his thighs and blinking at Stiles. “So what do you have in mind?”

Stiles fidgets a little. He's friends with Michael and his pack but to be fair this is an odd request, and he doesn't know how to phrase it well. In the end he decides to go with it, and see what happens. “Well,” he begins hesitantly, “your parents knew Derek's parents, right?”

Michael nods.

“So I was wondering if you had anything of theirs? Like, an old picture, or a keepsake, or anything?” Stiles licks his lips nervously when he finishes.

Michael looks thoughtful. “I'm not sure,” he says finally. “We might have a couple of pictures, maybe. Really old ones, though.”

“Dude, that's awesome,” Stiles replies, his uncertainty washing away. It's a start. “Do you mind if I – you know – take it?”

“No, not really,” Michael tells him. “So what, you're just gonna give him a photograph and hope he doesn't start crying?”

“No, of course not,” Stiles says, feeling a little put out by the comment. “I just thought it'd be nice if he had something of theirs.”

“Hey man, I meant no offence,” Michael placates, correctly interpreting Stiles's tone. “I know how he is about his family, so I was just curious.”

“It's okay,” Stiles says, and forces himself to smile. “So, um – I'm kind of on a schedule here, can I have the photos? If you don't mind.”

Michael nods, realizing he's crossed a line, and rises. “Yeah, I'll go get them. I'm sorry,” he adds when he's at the door, and he genuinely looks it.

“No problem,” Stiles says, deciding to forgive him. He's a good friend and a great ally, and he does sound regretful about his little comment.

Michael returns with three small squares – Polaroids, Stiles realizes. They really are old, worn out at the edges and creased a little. The first is a picture of Talia Hale with her husband's arm around her, both of them smiling into the camera. It's the first time Stiles has actually seen their faces, and he discovers there's a lump in his throat. Derek's parents are _beautiful_.

The second picture is a family photo, with a very young Laura holding a toddler Derek's hand. Stiles smiles inadvertently as he sees it. Derek looks just so cute, making a mulish face at the camera and clutching his sister's stubby little fingers tightly. He's so _chubby_. It's _adorable_.

The third is a picture of Talia and Peter, and Stiles is a little shocked by how young and happy Peter looks. He reminds himself that Peter hadn't always been a power-hungry dick, how it was only the murder of his family that made him that way. The Peter in the picture is smiling, an actual smile instead of a smirk or a leer, and he's got his arm around his sister. Stiles can easily imagine a young Derek looking up to this Peter, wanting to be like him.

Not for the first time, an intense hatred for Kate Argent flares inside his chest. She took that away, too. Peter's happiness, Derek's innocence, Cora's childhood... all those _lives_ lost. _Babies_ , Peter's wife, Derek's little cousins, his aunts and uncles and his grandparents, oh _God_.

“Hey, man, you okay?” Michael asks. Stiles realizes that his eyes are brimming.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he says thickly, attempting to wipe the tears away discreetly. “Just... you know. A bit overwhelmed.”

“I get it,” Michael says, and he does. His boyfriend’s family had been murdered by crazy hunters too, despite being human. Just because they refused to give Michael up. He understands the pain, understands what it's like to feel a burning rage against those who've ruined the life of someone you love.

“It doesn't ever go away, does it?” Stiles asks quietly.

Michael shakes his head. “No. It gets better, but it doesn't go away.”

Stiles looks back at the picture of Derek's family, and then back up at Michael. He nods, puts the pictures carefully into his bag, and stands. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

Michael stands too. “No you don't. This isn't a favor, okay? Just think of it as an old friend helping another friend out.”

Stiles inhales, and nods again. “Okay.” He offers Michael a small smile. “I'll see you around?”

“Keep in touch,” Michael says, walking Stiles to the door. “And say hi to Derek from me.”

“I will. Uh, you too. Take care.”

“Will do, kid.”

Stiles starts up the Jeep and waves to Michael, before reversing out of his driveway and leaving.

* * *

He tucks the photographs very carefully into a file, and gives them a last wistful look before pulling out his phone and calling Deaton. “Hey, doc,” he says when Deaton picks up. “Before you ask, nahh, this isn’t an emergency. I just need your help. With a totally non-emergency matter.”

“All right, Stiles,” says Deaton, and sounds a little amused. “What is it?”

“Uh, is Scott around?” Stiles asks, just to make sure.

“No. It’s just me.”

“Okay, so um, you know it’s getting closer to the Hale fire anniversary, right? And like, you know how much it sucks that Derek has nothing to remember them by. So like I’m doing this thing where I’m meeting up with people who’d known the Hales before, and like, just asking if they’ve got things like old photos or keepsakes or anything. But like, obviously I don’t know that much, but you’ve known them for like forever, right? So if I email you the pictures could you tell me a bit about them? Stuff like who’s in the picture, when and where it was taken, you know.”

He stops for breath. Deaton considers this, and then says, “Hm. I believe I may be able to help.”

“Really? Thanks, dude,” Stiles says, exhaling in relief. “So I’ll email the pictures to you?”

“Yes, you may,” Deaton replies. “Am I correct in assuming I’m not to speak of this to anyone?”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” Stiles tells him. “I want it to be a surprise.”

“Noted.”

Stiles hangs up, and takes out his notebook again. Next destination is Bismarck, North Dakota, 18 hours away. According to his carefully assembled notes, the pack he’s going to be meeting is the Harjo clan, who’ve known Talia Hale since before she got married to Michael Hale. Stiles is hoping this means they’ll have something nice to give him - if they agree to see him. He hasn’t talked to them yet.

He pulls out his laptop, emails Deaton, and asks him for all the numbers he needs.

* * *

He stays in Missoula, Montana, for the night, going over his notes and schedule in his ratty motel room. Deaton’s emailed the details of the pictures back, as well the contact details for all the packs Stiles has yet to meet. He’s a bit nervous about meeting the Harjos, more than he was with Michael’s pack, mainly because he’s friends with Michael but doesn’t know anyone else. He doesn’t even know if they’d agree to helping him out. He hopes they will, at least out of respect for an old alliance.

So far, the only people who know about his plan are Deaton, and Lydia, who’s agreed to help as much as she can. She’s contributed immensely, helping him locate the packs and providing details. He calls her now, wanting to go over the new information, but also wanting to talk to someone.

“Hey,” he says when she picks up. “How’re you?”

“I’m good,” she answers. Stiles can hear soft music in the background. “You?”

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “Am I interrupting something?”

“I was reading, but it’s okay,” she tells him, and the music goes down. “So - what’s up? What did you find out?”

“Michael gave me a couple of pictures, and Deaton identified them for me, I’m sending them over now,” he informs her. “He’s given me the contact number for the Harjo pack. Lydia - what if they don’t want to meet me?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” she asks rhetorically. “You’re part of Derek’s pack. They’re former allies. Not to mention, Scott’s got himself a bit of a reputation, what with the true alpha thing and all. I suspect people would be at least curious about you, considering you’re his best friend.”

“That makes sense. Thanks.”

“I was thinking,” she begins, “there’s all these packs, people who were allied to the Hales for so long, people who could _help_ \- why haven’t we contacted them before?”

“No idea,” admits Stiles. “I guess we’ve been so preoccupied we didn’t really stop to think about it. Derek wasn’t very forthcoming either, ya know. Probably because these people knew him _before_ , and I don’t know, I guess seeing them would bring it all back?”

“All the same.” And now Lydia sounds sad. “You think if we’d known them, asked them to help out… you think Allison, Erica and Boyd might be alive? Aiden might be alive?”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t know. Well, you know how Beacon Hills is. I doubt anyone would willingly put themselves in the middle of this clusterfuck.”

Lydia doesn’t answer, just inhales and exhales. Stiles knows what she’s thinking. “Listen, it doesn’t make a difference now, does it?” he asks. “Thinking it won’t change a thing.”

“I know,” she says, brisk, back to business. He’s always marveled at how she can compartmentalize, do what needs to be done. “Okay, I better get back to my reading. You should sleep.”

“Okay. I’ll call if anything comes up.”

“Yeah.”

He tosses his phone aside and picks up his notebook again. The doodle is there in the corner again, and he runs his fingers over it, slightly smudging the pencil. He needs to make up his mind about this.

A problem for another day, he decides, and goes to sleep.

* * *

Adahy Harjo has a grin a mile wide and a welcoming expression when Stiles rolls up in his Jeep. To Stiles’s surprise he hugs him, and then says, “Welcome! You must be Stiles, from the McCall pack?”

Stiles nods, and offers a nervous grin. “That is me. I am Stiles. You’re Adahy? Adahy - am I pronouncing that right?”

“No,” replies the beta with a solemn look, but his eyes betray his mirth. “Come on inside, I’ll take you to the leader.” He does an alien impression and flashes a Vulcan salute, and Stiles decides he likes him.

Adahy can’t be older than Derek, dressed simply in jeans and a navy blue shirt with his long hair pulled back in a messy braid. He’s tall, well-built, and Stiles has no doubt that he would be lethal even if he wasn’t a wolf.

“My grammy, she’s a bit on the grouchy side,” he says casually. “Just keep that in mind, yeah? And uh, don’t mumble or anything, that shit drives her up the damn wall.”

Stiles blinks. “Uh - okay.”

“Don’t hesitate before talking either,” Adahy advises. “She values confidence and self-assurance. What she doesn’t tolerate is spineless weaklings.” He gives Stiles a cursory once-over, as if trying to see which category Stiles falls into.

It makes Stiles stand a little taller, and square his shoulders. “All right,” he says, and is pleased by how firm and decisive he sounds. He’s got a job to do, dammit.

Adahy nods, apparently approving. “Okay,” he says, and leads the way inside the house. It’s simply furnished, with bare walls and a earthy brown carpet covering the entire floor. It smells nice though, some mixture of herbs and spices that is instantly relaxing.

Adahy notes Stiles sniffing the air. “Keeps the younger ones grounded,” he informs him. “Especially around the full moon.”

Alsoomse Harjo is a strong, slender woman of at least eighty - and she looks like she could snap his neck if need be. Stiles remembers Adahy’s advice, and holds his hand out. “Morning. I’m Stiles Stilinski, from the McCall pack. I called ahead?”

She regards him for a moment, and then takes his hand. “Alsoomse Harjo. Emissary of the Harjo pack. My brother’s the Alpha. He’s not around right now.” She sits, and he follows her lead. Adahy looks like he wants to join them, but she waves him away.

“That’s all right,” Stiles says, offering a neutral smile. “I didn’t come for business. It’s personal, actually.” At her nod, he continues, “I understand you were allied to the Hale pack before the fire?”

She looks surprised, but rearranges her features almost instantly. “Yes.”

“Derek’s in my pack,” Stiles tells her, unnecessarily. Everyone knows the McCall pack. “He doesn’t know I’m here. I need a favor.”

“Go on,” she says, curiosity evidently piqued. She’s watching him closely, following his every move, and he tries his best not to fidget.

“I was wondering if you have anything of the Hales? Something to remember them by? Please, even if it’s nothing but an old photograph.”

She considers this, and then says, “Why do you ask?”

“Derek doesn’t have anything to remember them by,” Stiles tells her. “I think it’ll do him good.”

“Why does it matter to you?” she asks, still watching him closely. Stiles is pretty sure she knows the answer - they’re not really subtle, are they? - but wants to hear it from anyway, for whatever reason.

He’s got other packs to get to, and only one and a half week left. He needs to _hurry_. Plus there’s the decision he keeps putting off. So he just says, “Derek and I have been together for _years_ , and I know you know this. You know our pack, everyone does. Look, thank you for your time, and for agreeing to see me, but I don’t have time for pack politics, okay? That’s not what I came for. This is an entirely personal visit.”

She bursts out laughing, to his surprise. “Well, you’re quite the ball of fire! I was not talking about pack politics, _child_. I have known Derek Hale for longer than you’ve _lived_. Of course I would be concerned.”

Stiles frowns. “Concerned? So why didn’t you reach out to him after the fire?”

“I did,” she says, her mirth instantly vanishing. “Derek and Laura Hale refused all help from outsiders.”

“So you left them alone? Jesus,” sighs Stiles, not believing this. After all that effort to avoid friction, too. “He was a _teenager_. Laura was barely an adult. You expect traumatized kids, a brand new Alpha, to make rational decisions?” He stands. “Look, thanks, really, but I’d better be on my way. I got a lot of other packs to see.”

She stands too. “We have not always made the best decisions,” she says roughly. “What happened to the Hales was tragic. But an Alpha needs to make their own way, learn the ropes. Experience is the best teacher.”

“I call bullshit,” scoffs Stiles. “You’re their emissary, you should know better than to try to convince me what’s good for an Alpha and what isn’t, okay. My lover was one. My best friend _is_ one. I know more about this shit than people think.”

She regards him with her dark eyes. “You’ve definitely got spirit,” she finally says. “I’m sorry, I’ve got nothing to give you. But I do believe you’ll do a lot of good for that pack yet.” She holds out her hand.

Stiles shakes it, a firm, short handshake. “Thanks for your time,” he says.

She nods. “Journey safely, Stiles Stilinski.”

“Hey man, I’m sorry,” Adahy says the minute Stiles exits the room. He’s not at all surprised to find the young beta had been eavesdropping. “She gets like that.” He pushes a piece of paper into Stiles’s hand, and winks at him. Then he says in a normal tone, “I’ll drop you off to your car.”

Stiles doesn’t look at the paper until he’s in the driver’s seat. It’s an email address. Adahy’s, to be specific. He grins, and waves at Adahy as he drives away.

* * *

The next pack isn’t that far off, thankfully - Stiles’s ass hurts from sitting in the Jeep for too long. He makes the six hour drive to Minneapolis, Minnesota, in four and a half, driving like his life depends on it. Or well, Derek’s happiness - which, if he’s being completely honest with himself, ranks far above his life.

He checks into a motel, calls and updates Lydia, then powers up his laptop. He emails Deaton the pictures, and then shoots off a quick email to Adahy.

_Hey man, what’s up? What’s the email ID for?_

The little box in the corner tells him Adahy is currently online, so he looks through his notes while he waits. He’s got seven other packs to see, all of them scattered over the States. He sighs. Looks like he’s not going to be sleeping much for the next ten or so days. Then again, he’s no stranger to all-nighters and coffee binges and power naps so he should be okay.

He’s not really that sleepy, he realizes. He fixes whatever he’s got in the files, scrawls down names and dates and places, and when he glances back at his screen he finds an email waiting from Adahy.

_She was lying; she’s got pictures all right. I think she suspects I’m sneaking behind her back, so I can’t mail them to you :/ I could scan and send them, though. That okay?_

Stiles smiles. Looks like he’s just found himself a new ally. Alsoomse might not be a field of roses but maybe he’ll go talk to her brother later on.

 _That’s perfect,_  he replies. _Thanks a lot, dude_.

He shuts off his computer, sets an alarm for ten minutes before checkout time in the morning, and goes to sleep. He dreams of fire and smoke and helpless children.

* * *

He visits a pack up in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and they treat him well enough. He leaves feeling accomplished - they were definitely interested in the McCall pack and expressed an intention to come to aid if needed. They also gave him some photos and a handwritten anecdote of a case they’d collaborated with the Hales on. Talia had written it, and she’d forgotten it there when they’d left. She’d never returned, perishing a month later.

The pack from Holland, Michigan, is aloof but helpful. They’ve only worked with the Hales once, and so don’t have much to offer, but they do tell Stiles about a couple other packs who might be able to help. Stiles smiles, thanks them, and doesn’t mention he already plans on visiting those packs.

He ends the week on a good note in Muncie, Indiana. The Alpha’s name is Adam, and his wife Liliana has known Talia since they were children, and as such she has a lot of things, and a lot of memories too. She’s initially hesitant to part with the stuff, though. “I don’t know, Stiles,” she says, and she looks sad. “These are very important to me.”

“They would mean so much to Derek,” Stiles tells her earnestly. “He’s got nothing left to remember them by. And no, I don’t count a burned shell of a house,” he adds when he sees her open her mouth to speak.

“I wasn’t gonna say that,” she says, and sighs.

“Lil, honey, I think maybe you should consider it,” Adam says gently. Their daughter Max nods.

“Look, these mean a lot to me, okay,” she tells Stiles. “I’ve had them for a very long time. I’ve known Talia since we were kids.”

Max says, “Mom, it’s going to be a lot better for him than it is for you.”

Liliana turns around to stare at her daughter incredulously, but then she sees that her husband obviously agrees. “Please,” adds Stiles, keeping his tone soft and low, almost imploring. “He needs it.”

She sighs again. “All right. But only because it’s Derek, okay?”

So that’s a victory of sorts, then. He leaves after getting hugged tightly by Liliana, who’s done a 180 now that she’s decided to give Talia’s stuff up - “thank you so much. He meant a lot to Talia, and he deserves closure. Thank you for trying to give it to him,” and Stiles doesn’t cry, he swears he doesn’t, _it’s allergy season, okay_ \- and kissed on the cheek by her daughter Max. Another pack he’s re-established contact with, and that’s a good thing.

Liliana gives him framed pictures of Talia from their childhood, pictures of Talia and Michael’s wedding day, baby pictures of Derek, Laura and Cora (Stiles does not _coo_ , okay. He does _not._ ), and a few odds and ends. A hair clip Talia had forgotten at her place. Michael’s favorite book. The baby book she’d mailed Liliana. Stiles touches it all carefully, reverently, running his fingers down the spine of the book and across the edges of the frames, before carefully putting it away.

Adahy’s pictures are sent back by Deaton, labeled and marked, and he prints them out and adds them to his steadily growing collection. He calls Lydia and lets her know he’s around half-done, then emails Adahy again and thanks him.

He goes to bed on Friday night with a soft bubble of anticipation inside his chest. He has no idea how Derek’s going to react.

* * *

He’s woken by a call from Derek. “Cora’s here,” Derek tells him, and he sounds cheerful for once.

“Oh, great!” Stiles replies, instantly alert. “How’s she?”

There’s a slight scuffle, and Stiles can hear arguing on the other end. Then Cora says, “Hi, Stiles!”

“Hey,” greets Stiles enthusiastically. “How ya doin’?”

“I’m good, thanks,” she replies. “Stiles, when are you coming home? _He. Won’t. Stop. Whining_.”

“I do not whine!” Derek whines from the background. Stiles snickers.

“Just another week, Cora,” he says. “How long are you staying for?”

“A month or so!” she tells him brightly. “I figure that’s enough to get used to Beacon Hills again.” Her voice grows sombre. “So much’s changed.”

Stiles thinks of the darkness around his heart, of Allison and Aiden. “Yeah.”

Before Cora can say anything, there’s another argument, and then the line goes dead. Stiles stares down at his phone in disbelief, and then it rings again, Cora’s number flashing across the screen.

“Sorry,” grumbles Derek when Stiles picks up. “She broke my phone.”

“Gee, I feel loved,” grins Stiles. “So, how’re you doing, big guy?”

“I’m fine,” Derek tells him. “She’s not wrong, you know. I do miss you.”

“So much!” Cora yells from somewhere behind Derek. “He won’t stop talking about you!”

There’s a wistful smile on Stiles’s face. “I’ll be home in a week,” he promises Derek. “We can have all the sex.”

“That sounds good,” agrees Derek.

“No it doesn’t!” Cora calls out. “I’m moving in with Lydia!”

Stiles laughs. “All right, Derek, I got to go now,” he says, not wanting to hang up but knowing he’s got work to do. “Later?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, sounding morose again. “Take care.”

“You too, big guy.”

Stiles hangs up, puts his phone aside, and picks up his notebook. The sunlight falls through the window, illuminating the pages as he flips through them. He lands on the page with the triskelion doodle, and makes his decision then and there.

* * *

Lydia calls him in the afternoon as he’s driving, and he puts it on speaker. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Don’t bother with New York,” she tells him flatly, not wasting any time. “I called ahead and asked if it was okay for you to visit, and they flat-out denied it. Said they didn’t have anything that Derek would want, and not to contact them again.”

“That’s… fucked up,” Stiles says, frowning. “They’ve got history, probably.”

“Yeah,” agrees Lydia. “By the way, Cora’s come over, says she wants to talk to you.”

There’s a short pause, and then Cora says, “Hey, Stiles, is there any way you could come home sooner?”

“I’ll see,” Stiles says. “Can’t promise anything. Why?”

“Derek,” she says. “I had to get out of the house, Stiles, he’s been pissy all morning and then some time ago he just - I don’t know, I think he was crying? He wouldn’t let me come near him. Stiles, I don’t know what to do.” She sounds stricken.

Derek’s been crying. Shit. “Cora, I’ll try my best, but I can’t make any promises,” Stiles says, hating himself. “It’s important, or I’d never have taken so long.”

“It’s not finals, is it?” asks Cora knowingly.

“No,” admits Stiles. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really tell you. But it’s very important.”

She seems to accept that, probably because she’s too preoccupied to argue. “It sucks,” she says finally, “because I _know_ why he’s so upset but I can’t do anything. Stiles, I don’t even really remember them! It’s so unbelievably crap - I can’t even remember my own family.” She lets out a hollow, mirthless laugh. “How fucking sad is that.”

The lump in Stiles’s throat makes a reappearance. He doesn’t know what to say that could possibly make it better for her. “You were so little,” is all he can manage.

Cora makes a wet sniffling sound. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” she asks bitterly. “I’ll never know my family. I’ll never know my big sister, or my mom and dad, or my non-psychotic uncles and aunts.” There’s a pause, and then she says, “I’m going to hang up now, before I begin bawling like a fucking baby.”

Before Stiles can reply, the line goes dead. He sighs, swallows, and turns off the speaker. His mission seems a lot more important now. It was just for Derek before, but it’s extended to Cora too now. She was just a child, Jesus. Stiles feels the old hatred for Kate Argent bubble up inside him again, and tamps it down.

 _Focus_ , he tells himself. _Getting pissed at the bitch won’t solve a damn thing_.

He pushes the accelerator all the way down, and turns the radio on high to distract himself from his own thoughts.

* * *

Since he doesn’t have to go to New York anymore, his journey’s considerably shortened. He goes down to Brentwood, Tennessee, and lets the Pollux pack know he’s coming.

It doesn’t go well.

For one, the Alpha is a grouchy man in his thirties, wearing only a pair of faded denim pants and showing off his muscled chest for all to see. It’s not even a nice muscled chest. Then again, Derek’s chest has kind of ruined him for anything else, so Stiles feels he should wait a bit before comparing.

The Alpha, Mark Pollux, has only two betas - kids he’s turned. And by kids, Stiles doesn’t mean teenagers, not like Erica, Boyd and Isaac. He means _kids_. _Children_ , a boy and a girl. He’s actually terrified. The man must be _mad_.

“Hey,” he says, not getting down from his Jeep, hand tightening around the handle of the baseball bat in the front seat. “You Mark Pollux?”

The werewolf grunts in confirmation. “You Stilinski?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve heard of you. You’re in McCall’s pack.”

“Yeah. Listen, I need a favor.”

“I don’t do favors.”

Stiles blinks, taken aback by the rough dismissal. “It’s for Derek Hale,” he says cautiously. The two nine-year-old betas are shifted, wrestling some feet away. It’s disturbing to watch, the way they slash at each other and draw blood. Stiles turns his eyes away.

“I don’t care,” grunts Pollux. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“I was just wondering if you had anything that might’ve belonged to the Hales once,” Stiles tries once more. “Because, you know, the Hale fire-”

“Did you not hear me?” Pollux glares, and the insanity in his eyes intensifies a hundred-fold. It makes Stiles nervous, but he refuses to show his fear. Pollux can probably smell it anyway, but that doesn’t mean Stiles will show it. “I said I don’t care, boy. Now leave before I slash your throat out, and I don’t care that Hale will murder me for it.”

The worst part is that he looks like he means it too. Stiles doesn’t say another word, just throws the Jeep in reverse and gets the fuck out of there.

* * *

The Pollux “pack”, if it can even be called that, is the last on his list. Stiles returns to his motel and begins to go through the file of pictures, and the other stuff he’s got in a carton. It all looks pretty much in order, and he smiles to himself. He’s done well. He’s got a lot of stuff that he’s sure Derek doesn’t even know exists.

He checks his email - there’s nothing - and then calls Lydia. “Pollux is an asshole, nothing there,” he tells her.

“It’s okay, you’ve still got enough, right?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I can’t wait till I’m home.”

“It’s a 34-hour drive,” Lydia says. “Drive safely.”

“I will,” Stiles promises. “I’ll be there soon. Don’t tell Derek or Cora,” he adds.

“Of course not,” she says, sounding offending that he’d even have to say it. Good old Lydia. Stiles smiles, talks to her some more and then hangs up.

He wants to call Derek, check up on him, but he resists the urge. Derek thinks he’s buried up to his nose in textbooks, studying for his finals. If Stiles calls it might make him suspicious. With a heavy sigh Stiles puts his phone aside, and begins rearranging the stuff in the carton.

He goes out, buys a photo album and puts the pictures in it, before packing the box with shock-absorbers. He tapes it shut, and scrawls on it in Sharpie, _For Derek and Cora Hale. The ones who love us never really leave us._

Yeah, he’s a fucking Harry Potter nerd. So what. The quote fits.

Then he packs up his stuff, locks it in the trunk, checks out and leaves Brentwood in the rearview mirror.

* * *

He makes only one stop on the way that isn’t for food or rest.

* * *

He rolls into Beacon Hills at dawn, two days earlier than expected. The town’s silent as he drives through the streets, everyone indoor and probably sleep. He drives past the Sheriff’s station on his way to his and Derek’s place, and doesn’t find his dad’s cruiser there. The Sheriff’s home, then.

Stiles decides to go check in on his dad before going to his and Derek’s home, and takes a turn. The cruiser, as expected, is parked outside the house. He parks the Jeep and shuts off the engine, and unlocks the front door, walking in.

He’s immediately assaulted by the stinging odor of burning food, and he rushes into the kitchen. His dad’s not here, which means he’s upstairs, and he’s left the stove going. Stiles sighs to himself, turns it off and dumps the pan in the sink. He finds some bread and eggs and decides to treat his dad, finding another pan.

He’s just cracked the eggs and put them in the pan to fry when his dad comes downstairs, smelling nice and clean, dressed in his uniform, his hair still damp from his shower. He stops short at the sight of Stiles.

“Hey, Daddy-O,” Stiles greets, unable to help the wide grin that unfurls across his face.

His dad strides forward and envelopes him in a tight hug, almost causing him to send the pan flying. “How are you, son?” asks the Sheriff when he pulls apart, hands still resting on Stiles’s shoulders.

“I’m good,” answers Stiles. “You realize you burnt whatever it is you were trying to cook, right?” He takes the bread out of the toaster and puts it on a plate.

The man groans. “Shit, I’d forgotten that,” he mutters, and takes a look into the sink. “What even is that?”

“No idea,” shrugs Stiles. “Anyway, you obviously can’t eat that, so.” He inclines his head towards the eggs, before lifting them out of the pan and placing them on top of the toast, and presenting it to his dad.

“Thanks, kid,” says the Sheriff gratefully. He sits down at the table, and Stiles sits with him. “So - how were your exams?”

“They went well,” Stiles tells him. He wonders if he should tell his dad what he’s been really up to, and makes up his mind in a millisecond. With his dad, honesty’s always been the best policy, though he might not have known that in the beginning. “Actually, Dad… finals ended two weeks ago.”

The Sheriff raises an eyebrow, pausing in his eating. “Let me guess. You were off doing something very noble and awe-inspiring,” he deadpans.

“Well - not exactly,” Stiles says, and then tells him the entire thing. The Sheriff listens intently, and doesn’t move even after he’s finished eating and his coffee’s gone cold.

When Stiles is done, he says, “So - what did you get?”

“The box is in my car,” Stiles answers. “I got like a _lot_ of stuff. It’s a lot more than I was expecting, it’s actually pretty awesome.”

“Cora came to visit me, you know,” the Sheriff says abruptly, and Stiles blinks, missing the connection. “She came the day after she got here, alone.”

“And?” asks Stiles, wondering what Cora would want with his dad.

“Nothing,” replies his dad. “We just talked for a bit, and I invited her and Derek to dinner. It was nice. They had fun, you know, even though clearly Derek missed you. My point is,” he adds when Stiles blinks at him, uncomprehending, “they enjoyed it because it felt like family. I know you and I couldn’t possibly replace their parents, but Stiles - we can try. We can do at least that.”

Stiles nods, getting it. “Yeah,” he says thickly, and clears his throat. “Yeah. His parents were so beautiful,” he adds, looking up at his dad, biting his bottom lip. His eyes are filling up again. “And Daddy, you should have seen Peter. He looked so _happy_ , you know. And just one crazy woman, that’s all it took to take that away from them, and it’s just not fair, you know?”

“I know,” the Sheriff says quietly, standing. He squeezes Stiles’s shoulder as he passes by to put his plate and mug in the sink. “It’s not fair at all.”

* * *

Stiles waits until his dad leaves before going up to his room. He sits in his desk chair and looks around for a bit, just relishing the feeling of being back home, inhaling the smell of his own room. His dad’s left it exactly the way it was, except for a thin layer of dust that hadn’t been there before.

He just sits in the chair for some time, not really keeping track of his thoughts as he looks around at his room, his posters, his old bed. He’s got this place to come back to, at the end of the day, to remind him of happier times in his childhood and throughout his teenager years. What Derek and Cora have is a blackened shell of a house and their big sister’s mutilated body.

Stiles sits there blankly for some more time, before getting up and scribbling a note for his dad, and leaving.

* * *

Derek’s fast asleep when Stiles lets himself in, and doesn’t wake up. The house is messy, but a lot better than what Stiles had been expecting. Cora’s nowhere to be seen, and he assumes she’s out for a run or something. Stupidly fit Hales.

He puts his bags down in the hallway (the box is still in the car), and sneaks upstairs, taking care to stay quiet and not disturb Derek. The bedroom door is ajar, and he pushes it open to find Derek sprawled across the bed, snoring into his pillow. He must be pretty out of it, considering he still hasn’t woken up.

Stiles smiles at the sight. _Cute_ isn’t a word he’d normally associate with Derek, but right now it fits perfectly. His hair is mussed with sleep and his mouth is open, the side of his face smushed into the pillow. He’s actually _cuddling_ it, and it’s just so _adorable_.

Because he’s Stiles and being a little shit is basically written in his DNA, he snaps a picture with his cell phone before kicking off his socks and shoes, chucking his phone on a cushion and getting under the covers. He snuggles in close to Derek, who finally stirs, opens his eyes and blinks groggily at Stiles. “You’re early,” he mumbles, before wrapping an arm around Stiles’s middle and dragging him closer.

“Surprise,” whispers Stiles, and gets in closer.

Derek mumbles something unintelligible, buries his face in Stiles’s neck, and goes right back to sleep.

* * *

They’re rudely woken when Cora barges into the room and right up to their bed, ripping the covers off and yelling happily, “Rise and shine, lovebirds!”

Derek groans, waking up just long enough to show his sister the finger. Stiles grins at her. “How ya doin’?”

“Pretty good, thanks,” she replies, throwing the window open. Stiles groans at the sudden assault of sunlight on his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Around noon,” she says. “I wanted to wake you up earlier but you looked _so cute_ ,” she teases, and pulls Derek’s cheek.

Derek bats her away, pulling a disgruntled face. “Go terrorize Lydia,” he grumbles.

“Nah, you’re more fun,” she says brightly.

Stiles rolls out of bed while Cora and Derek bicker like the total children they actually are, and goes to the bathroom. He’s back out in a minute to find Cora lounging on their bed, while Derek’s nowhere to be seen.

“He went downstairs to cook,” she explains.

“You do realize we’ve had sex in that bed, right?” questions Stiles, giving her a shit-eating grin.

She jumps off immediately. “Ew,” she declares, grimacing, and punches Stiles in the arm on her way out of the room.

Stiles grins at her retreating back. It’s good to be home.

* * *

The day go by in a blur, and before Stiles knows it, it’s evening. Derek has fallen back into silence and it’s gotten to Cora as well; both of them are currently sharing a couch in the living-room and staring off moodily into space.

“We would have been having dinner,” Derek finally says, voice hoarse from disuse, and Cora blinks at him.

“Yeah,” she says shortly. She looks like she might cry any moment, which goes straight to Stiles’s heart. _It’s time_ , he thinks, and gets up.

“Where are you going?” asks Derek.

“Out,” Stiles says, and offers a tentative smile. “Just, uh, forgot some stuff in the car.” It’s not a lie, and Derek nods, before settling back into his brooding.

Stiles takes a moment to compose himself outside, clutching the box tightly. _You can do this_ , he tells himself, trying to be motivational. _It’ll make them feel a bit better, hopefully._

He steels himself, tightens his hold on the box, and goes back inside. Derek looks up when he walks in, and asks, “What’s that?” He looks curious despite himself.

Wordlessly, Stiles holds out the box, making sure the words on it aren’t visible. Derek accepts it, looking puzzled. Cora scoots up next to him, staring at the box. Stiles waits till Derek’s got it in his lap, and then sits down in the single sofa, watching the Hales closely.

Derek’s finally seen the words, and he’s mouthing them silently as he reads them out. Cora’s leaning over, trying to read and getting annoyed when Derek’s arm blocks her view. Finally she just grabs his arm and puts it away.

He lets her, clearly too stunned by the words.

Cora reads them, and then looks up at Stiles, her mouth slightly open. He just nods at her, and then turns back to Derek, who’s already carefully dragging a claw across the tape that holds it closed. All three of them seem to hold their breaths as Derek opens the box, though going by his face it looks like he might already have guessed what it is.

Derek’s breath catches in his throat as he catches his first glimpse - it’s a picture of Talia and Michael Hale, and Stiles put it on top so Derek would see it first. Cora lets out a little “oh”, and takes the photograph out of the box. Derek seems frozen in space, too stunned to do anything.

“I’d forgotten how pretty Mom’s smile was,” Cora whispers, reverently running her fingers across the glass. “And wow - Dad was so handsome.”

The words seem to unfreeze Derek, who frantically digs into the rest of the box, completely ignoring Stiles for the time being. The human watches as Derek takes out picture after picture, a million expressions racing across his face so fast Stiles has trouble catching them all, much less interpreting them. He gets to the bottom of the box in two minutes, and then looks up at Stiles.

There is so much raw _anguish_ in those eyes, and Stiles begins to fear he’s done the wrong thing. His heart rate picks up and he can’t take it, can’t take the exposed, pained expression on Derek’s face, and so he looks away, biting his bottom lip. He’s fucked up, fucked up big time - he thought it might make Derek feel better but it’s just ripped the scab off the wound, it’s just made it _worse_ -

His own eyes fill up, blurring his vision, and so he doesn’t see it when Derek lurches up from the couch and staggers over to Stiles, putting the box aside for Cora to sift through. “You - how -” he tries, and then stops, seemingly incapable of coherent speech. Stiles finally looks up, to see that Derek’s crying too, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and shit, he’s never seen Derek cry like this before.

“Stiles,” Derek finally manages, his voice thick with tears, his throat sounding like it’s collapsed in on itself. “Stiles - how?”

“I lied,” Stiles says, his voice coming out scratchy. “My finals ended two weeks ago. I - I was on a road trip, I went to see all the packs your family had been allied to.”

Derek sinks to his knees, and Stiles gets down next to him. “I didn’t know you’d react like this,” he says miserably. “I’m so sorry, Derek.”

Derek looks up at him. “Are you crazy?” he asks, taking Stiles by surprise. He throws his arms around Stiles and smushes his face into Stiles’s neck. “It’s _perfect_ ,” he croaks. “I can’t - I’d never have thought - _thank you so much_.”

And to Stiles’s horror, he begins all-out sobbing. He looks helplessly up at Cora, who looks just as bewildered and shocked as he feels, clutching a picture of their grandparents in her hands so tight her knuckles are white.

So in the end Stiles just puts his arms around Derek’s shoulders and brushes his fingers through his hair, murmurs words that don’t make sense and frankly, aren’t even really that comforting, but they sooth Derek right down, to the point where inch by inch he makes himself relax. Soon enough he’s just lying limp against Stiles, while the human presses kisses to his face and tries to offer comfort in whatever small way he can.

“Thank you so much,” Derek repeats, when he’s regained some semblance of control. “I couldn’t have thought that this stuff still existed, and to - to see it again… I can’t even express that right now.” He’s speaking with his lips against Stiles’s collarbone, his fingers hooked into the hem of Stiles’s hoodie.

“Where did you get all this?” Cora asks, her voice hushed. She puts the last picture back in the box and slides down the sofa, coming to settle against Stiles’s shoulder.

“I asked around,” Stiles says, adjusting his hold on Derek’s shoulders so that Cora can lean in on the two of them as well. “Lydia helped, and so did Deaton. We tracked down all the packs your mom had been allied with, and we asked them if they had anything to remember her by. Only the New York and Brentwood packs didn’t help.”

“Left New York on a bad note,” mutters Derek, closing his eyes.

“Pollux pack has always been a bunch of insane asswipes,” adds Cora, and offers Stiles a watery grin which he returns.

They sit in silence for how long Stiles can’t say. Cora lifts the box into her lap and just holds on to it, holds on tightly to the remnants of what had been her family. Stiles watches how she keeps opening the box and looking at random objects, and suddenly he feels glad that he’s done this, given her the chance to get to know her family a little.

Just when Stiles thinks Derek’s dozed off, the werewolf jerks up and out of Stiles’s arms, standing. “I - I could do with some food right now,” he says, and gives Stiles a thin smile, outstretching his hand.

Stiles takes it and gets to his feet, only to be pulled into a strong embrace. Derek doesn’t speak this time, just buries his face in Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles feels a few tears seep through the fabric of his hoodie and on to his shoulder, but it feels different. Like Derek’s now crying from relief, from a lightness that only comes after a closure of sorts.

“Hey, don’t leave me out,” Cora protests, and Derek reaches out and drags her in, tightening his hold on bother her and Stiles. They stay like that for some more time, and Derek only lets go when Stiles pokes him in the side and says, “I think my legs might collapse.”

“Right,” he says, and grins sheepishly, eyes slightly red. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says. “You okay, big guy?”

Derek nods. “Yeah. I can’t believe it, but yeah.”

“I’m fine too, thanks for asking,” Cora interjects, and Stiles laughs while Derek rolls his eyes, albeit fondly. “You said something about food, big brother,” she reminds him a moment later.

“Oh, yeah,” Derek says, and begins walking towards the kitchen. “How does pasta sound? Mom’s recipe.” He’s smiling as he says it, and not the sad, wistful smile he normally associates with his mother. No, this one’s happy, almost joyful, and Stiles’s heart soars. He’s not exactly sure what he’s accomplished tonight, but at least the Hales can now be remembered with smiles and fond memories, instead of tears and isolated brooding. They can be remembered the way they deserve.

* * *

Stiles isn’t done, though; there’s one last thing left. He waits until they’re in bed, Cora settled in the guest room, and then takes off his shirt.

Derek frowns at him. “Stiles?” he questions, obviously not noticing anything out of the ordinary.

“I didn’t go only for the things,” Stiles finds himself saying, looking Derek in the eyes despite his heart thumping.

“What, then?” asks Derek, puzzled. Stiles can’t really blame him for not noticing right away - it _is_ dark.

He looks down, and Derek follows his gaze to the underside of his left collarbone. He frowns again, and leans in closer for a better look, hesitantly reaching up and touching the skin there.

Stiles can pinpoint the exact moment when Derek realizes what it is; his eyes go wide and he exhales, the puff of air brushing against Stiles’s skin. “When did you get this?” he asks, sounding breathless as he outlines it with his fingers, looking at it like it holds the answers to everything in the universe.

“A couple days ago,” Stiles tells him.

“It’s… it’s my tattoo,” Derek observes, somewhat redundantly. “But smaller.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, still a little nervous. “And, you know. A bit more.” He turns his gaze from Derek’s face down to the tattoo.

It’s an intricate design, something he’s worked on in the dark hours of the night when he couldn’t sleep in an unfamiliar place, not without his pillow or Derek. A jet-black triskelion, twisted delicately around a slightly lighter anchor, resting just under his collarbone. It’s still a bit red and sore, but the way Derek’s tracing it with his fingers, looking at it… it doesn’t feel raw at all. It feels… good. Really good.

“Is that us?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles repeats, and then asks a question of his own. “Do you - do you like it?”

“Like it?” Derek looks incredulous, his face snapping up to look at Stiles. “Stiles, I _love_ it.” He covers it with his palm and leans forward, wrapping his other arm around Stiles’s back. “It’s beautiful.”

Stiles rests his hands on Derek’s shoulders and leans into the embrace. “Yeah,” he says one more time, his voice coming out a breathy whisper. “Yeah.” He sighs happily as Derek begins softly rubbing his thumb across it, leaching the remaining pain away.

“I don’t deserve you,” Derek mutters against Stiles’s ear some time later. They haven’t moved, still sitting up in bed and holding on to each other.

“Makes sense, because I don’t deserve you either,” Stiles says, and Derek raises his head before shaking it vehemently.

“You deserve the best, Stiles,” he tells him seriously, taking his hand off the tattoo and putting it on Stiles’s face. “You deserve nothing less than the best, because you’re _amazing_.”

“Good,” whispers Stiles. “Because that means I get to have you.”

Derek’s lips twitch, and then he’s smiling, leaning in, kissing Stiles slowly, gently, like they have all the time in the world and there’s no need to hurry for anything. Stiles responds in kind, tangling his fingers in Derek’s hair, kissing him back like he’s trying to etch everything in his heart inside Derek, paint it there permanently so it’ll never fade.

Stiles rests his head against Derek’s shoulder when they end the kiss, and just stays there in Derek’s arms until he dozes off. Tonight there’s nothing else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment, guys :D and wish Aelya, it's her birthday today :D
> 
>  
> 
> [her tumblr.](http://afallengrace.tumblr.com/)  
> [my tumblr.](http://chester--bennington.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter'll be up tomorrow :D


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